concavity
by shipwrecked souls
Summary: Only after he loses Francis does Arthur realize the other man's aptitude at hiding secrets behind his silver tongue. Perhaps silver utensils cannot detect poison after all. What a disappointing old wives' tale. (Victorian England FrUK AU.)
1. crowds

꧁ _**concavity **_꧂

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**\- A/N -**

_**Genres:**_** Romance, Angst, Drama, Hurt/Comfort, Tragedy? (Ominous.)**

_**Rating:**_** T for language and mild graphic violence. Also random surrealism in the intro.**

_**Length: **_**Nine parts including an epilogue, or around 38K words.**

_**Disclaimer(s):**_** Historical inaccuracies ahoy, although I did do some research. I am not a resident of London/the UK/Europe, ****and neither am I a time traveler.**

**Also, possible plot holes.**

**I wrote the first chapter quite a while ago, then temporarily abandoned the story to write (and complete) another called Masquerades All the Way Down. So this chapter (save the intro, which I wrote later) ****is probably not up to par with my current standards.**

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_Smears and blotches envelop the sky, stained red like a sea of blood clots. Arthur sits still i__nside the carriage, __staring into the streets at the [REDACTED] below. __Something is wrong, __he decides. __The [REDACTED] SHOULD not be nameless, immaterial silhouettes. __They SHOULD not be phantoms, blurring into one another like transparent daubs of paint.  
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_Above him, Francis appears untroubled by their six-story carriage as it wheels them along the road. __He looks so handsome with the bones of his joints exposed to the air. __"What's wrong, Arthur?" he calls down from the fourth, bringing a teacup to his lips. The tissue on his knuckles __has long since melted. __"Is there something bothering you?"  
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_"No, nothing." Arthur takes a sip from his own cup. He imagines grabbing a fistful __of the SHOULDs and downing them with his contaminated water. There is no place in the world for normative claims. __"It's nothing."_

_"You know, the [REDACTED] all seem so small from up here. Aren't you glad that neither of us is down there, at least?"_

_Nonchalantly, Arthur shrugs. __"And I'd imagine we must seem quite small to them as well. Perspective, as I say."_

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_**Part I**_

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**_May 1881_**

**_London_**

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Somehow, the luggage feels heavier than usual, almost as if his arms are being weighted down by the noise around him. He unloads suitcase after suitcase, leather and wood and metal hinges blurring together as he hands them wordlessly to the sea of departing passengers. Passengers who barely offer him a second glance—but Arthur Kirkland can care less.

His paltry wage can care less.

The next one is small, crammed haphazardly at the roof of the compartment like a domino about to fall. He takes his time in reaching for the handle, setting the briefcase down with just enough force not to disturb its contents. A couple seconds later and it's gone, but he has already moved on.

Occasionally, he catches rare glimpses of the passenger's inner world—windows, windows everywhere, on decorated sides and subtle details that escape him at first glance. Windows that provide him a lens through which to view their existence.

Or at least, that's what he would like to believe.

_In_ _reality,_ he muses bitterly, _all I do is make assumptions when nothing else occupies my mind._

He sets down the next suitcase much too heavily without realizing.

_Assumptions about myself, others, and all manners of ghosts in between._

This appears increasingly true the more Arthur stares at his next piece of baggage. The first thing he notices is the shape—the bulging leather bag contrasts glaringly with the square contours of its neighbors, drawing a curious glance from over his shoulder. But the intricate patterns running down the length of the bag are what steal his attention. _They shine,_ he notes distractedly. Like silver.

_Who the hell would possibly—_

"I will take that!" a cheerful voice calls out behind him.

Arthur whirls around. Before him stands a young man of twenty years, about the same age as himself, shoulder-length hair tied back in a ponytail and dressed in a crisp suit. _Huh. Must be the son of some wealthy gentleman or another._

Silently, Arthur hands him the bag and waits for him to leave.

He doesn't leave.

Instead, he gazes around the railway station with an air of curiosity, as if only noticing it for the first time. As the last remaining passengers slowly begin to disperse around them, he turns back toward Arthur and observes, "Wonderful region of the city, isn't it?"

It takes him a moment to even realize that he's speaking to him, let alone recognize the sarcastic nature of the remark. As Arthur quickly regains his composure, he raises an eyebrow and shoves his hands into his trouser pockets. "Ah, yes, sir."

"That is, if one happens to have a fondness for pollution," he finishes. "Yes?"

_Why the hell is he making conversation?_

Still, he plays along. "Then, if I may ask," he sighs, "what brings you here on this fine day?"

"Perhaps I have simply taken a liking to such picturesque districts as yours," he responds breezily, cradling the bag in his arms. He says this while standing against the distant backdrop of a smog-choked sky. "And what about you?"

Arthur huffs and crosses his arms. "Lived here since birth. Are you passing through the East End?"

The other man lets out a lighthearted chuckle. "No."

"So you're visiting, then?"

"Wrong again," he smiles, adjusting his top hat. "Actually, I plan on staying."

Arthur stops. For a moment, he can only stare.

And then his jaw drops.

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The scent of rain reaches him long before the floodgates open. He sits at the edge of the cold concrete, legs crossed, hands huddled in his lap and gaze riveted on the darkening skyline. Fifty feet above the ground, the winds are merciless. Arthur can barely make out the faint outlines of distant rooftops through the hair whipping into his eyes, but he forces himself to stay put.

_There's still time._

Miles away, obscured from view in the smothered sky, sunset flowers are blooming amid a bed of radiation. Blossoming scarlet and vermilion as they ride the night to the horizon.

He's never liked the rain, one way or another.

Sometimes he feels as if the heavens are bleeding, albeit not in a particularly charming manner. The swollen storm clouds remind him of mosquitoes—their bellies full of stolen blood, looming high over the silent city. And then there is the rain itself, wild and feral, thick and thunderous, colliding as it plummets, twisting through the air and accelerating through an impatient free fall until—

_—pitter-patter._

He freezes.

_Footsteps,_ Arthur realizes. Behind the muted notes of falling raindrops, hesitant footfalls are landing on the stairs to the apartment building rooftop. _His_ rooftop, and _his_ sanctuary. _His_ lonely refuge from the world when his empty existence became too much to handle.

Someone is coming.

The footsteps he hears are tentative and curious, strangely dissimilar to the monotony he's accustomed to. If there's one thing Arthur knows well, it's footsteps. They're everywhere—whenever he is working, whenever he is not, stubbornly trailing him like shadows long after the lights have faded out and the leaky faucet starts to go _drip-drip-drip_ in the apartment room. Certain ideas need no voice to be understood—and this is something he respects.

Suddenly, the footsteps pause.

The wind grows stronger, lifting his shirt as Arthur rises to his feet. For a second, he wishes for the visitor to notice the thickening rain, to reconsider his plans and retreat back into the shadows of the staircase. But then he spins around, and he realizes that it's already too late.

He and the stranger stare at each other for a long, tense moment. Eventually, the silence becomes too heavy and Arthur's gaze is weighted down to the ground. Something is familiar about the other man—and then abruptly, it clicks.

"Do... do I know you, sir?" he asks, brows furrowing.

Another uncomfortable silence. The intruder continues staring thoughtfully, while running his hand absentmindedly through his dampened hair.

And then his neutral expression breaks, and he bursts out laughing.

"Oh, of _course_ you do," he declares, walking over with a confident stride. He's much too close, Arthur thinks irritably, but the other man does not appear to care. (At least it helps to hear him better over the rain.) "I remember you as well. The porter from yesterday, yes?"

"My name is Arthur," he ventures. "Arthur Kirkland."

He shoots Arthur an inquisitive look, but soon breaks out into a broad smile. "And I am Francis Bonnefoy of Buckinghamshire," he announces. "What business do you have up here in the rain?"

"What business do you have here at all?" Arthur retorts, wincing at the coldness seeping into his clothes. "And did you really arrive alone?"

"I did," Francis says proudly. As if this were something to be proud of. "And here I shall stay, at least until I decide on my next course of action."

The downpour is ever-strengthening, growing from a mere drizzle to a rainstorm that leaves his shirt half-soaked. Sighing, Arthur steps aside and begins marching past him toward the waiting staircase. "Well, I apologize, but I must be going," he calls over his shoulder. "I don't own many spare sets of clothes to change into, unlike you."

"What is that supposed to mean? You judge so thoughtlessly, Arthur."

"Well, did I assume wrong?"

Francis's lips quirk into an amused smile, as if surprised to find such audacity in him.

"No."

A bolt of lightning suddenly streaks down from the converging storm clouds, discharging with it a deafening peal of thunder. Shaking his head, Arthur turns away once more as he grips the staircase railings.

But curiosity stops him.

Just before he disappears onto the landing below, he pauses to satisfy one more doubt. _One last question,_ he decides.

"May I ask you something?"

"Anything."

He takes a deep breath.

"Why would you come here?" he asks quietly. "Who would come to the _East End_?"

Something changes in Francis's expression. It happens almost too quickly for Arthur to register, but he can tell that the mood of the conversation has shifted.

"Well," he finally replies, forcing a chuckle, "you could say I grew tired of the situation back home. And so, at the first stop on the North London Railway, I disembarked to find the nearest apartment building."

If Arthur's eyebrows can climb any higher, they would be entirely concealed beneath his scruffy hair. "Oh?"

Francis nods.

Arthur's knuckles turn white on the railings under his tight grip. Rainwater drips down his forehead into his eyes, and he hurriedly wipes it away with the back of one hand.

"That," he begins, "must be some of the strangest—" _m__ost nonsensical— _"reasoning I have ever heard. Even then, why would you—"

"I never said I would stay forever," Francis points out. "Besides, it is much easier for you to pass judgment when you are not the one making decisions. Or the one having a decision forced upon you."

It's Arthur's turn to counter, "What's that supposed to mean?" But Francis is already shrugging him away, hands in his pockets as he turns away toward the storm. Inattentively.

Pensively.

Dismissively.

Arthur frowns, and then he asks disbelievingly, "Are you really going to stay out here?"

"We don't receive as much rain where I come from," Francis replies, glancing briefly over his shoulder. With a flourish, he stands up straight and spreads his arms wide. In the last light of the fading sun, he manages to flash him a smile. "But I'm not stupid. I know when to come inside."

Arthur stares, and yet despite himself, some part of his mind believes him.

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**\- A/N -**

**For those looking for fluffy endings—****now would be a good time to turn back. :P**

**~ Reviews are appreciated ~**


	2. outsider

_**Part II**_

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After that evening, Arthur never thought he would see the strange man again. He was wrong.

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The storm lasts all throughout the night, battering windows and knocking on doors like an angry mob. To Arthur's muffled ears, it almost sounds as if someone were trying to break into his flat, and he hugs his sheets tighter in response to the pouring rain.

(It's ridiculous, really. He has nothing to fear. Nothing at all. This building has withstood worse weather.)

The next day comes and goes, trains and cargo, departure and arrival. A well-oiled machine, and he allows it to take over, lulling him into a certain rhythm. It's repetitive, but it's soothing, and he slowly accustoms himself to the monotony as the afternoon goes on. This—the point between agitation and calm, between restlessness and resignation—is the place where his mind usually wanders. And wander it does, from the highest deliberation to the lowest impulse.

_And then the sky closes,__ from open wound to stitched blue—_

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Darkness is falling, and he is alone. There are monsters roaming the streets tonight, but he is high, high above the city lights, where the moon shines bright and no man dares step. _Or perhaps,_ he scolds, _no other man is stupid enough to be out on the rooftop at this unsightly hour._

At least, that was what he thought.

He listens to the silence for a long moment, thoughts gathering weight and shoes gathering saturation. From the concrete, puddle water is seeping into his dirty socks, and he knows he should move—but the stillness of the night seems to hold him in a trance, forbidding him from so much as a budge. Leaving him to struggle through the space of his own anxieties like a trapped fly in amber.

_So many footsteps,_ he thinks. _So many travelers. _Where the hell is _he_ heading? Overworked exhaustion and an early grave? There has to be something else. Something different. He couldn't work six days a week and twelve hours per shift just to end up dying in this wreck of a place. And yet, there he is. Lonely in the city but hiding from the masses, suffocating above the ground instead of choking under the sheets.

_You're one of the lucky ones, Kirkland. __Be thankful you're not in the slums._

Suddenly, his existential panic session is interrupted by a voice behind him.

"Don't jump."

He starts.

It was him.

Trying not to show his surprise, Arthur draws out a long, exasperated sigh and shoves his hands inside his pockets. "Pardon me, sir?"

"I wouldn't be too surprised, given the state of your life." Vaguely, Francis gestures to the other man's threadbare waistcoat. "It must be bleak for you."

Arthur spits bitterly, shedding his veneer of polite respect in that one instant. "Like you would know."

"I was trying to be sympathetic, Arthur," Francis says, looking almost hurt. "After all, it's true."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Isn't it obvious?" he shrugs. "For one, your pitiful clothing arrangements are a crime against fashion. And your hair—have you never combed it in your life?"

"Oh. Because _that's_ a state of affairs I have time to care about now." Resentment flashes inside him, burning hot and bright. "These clothes are all I _have_."

"That was exactly my point!"

"Your point was to _mock_ me?"

"Have you never heard of a thing called _jest_?"

Stopping to catch their breaths, they glare at one another for what appears to be minutes, eyes setting fire to the space between them. Kerosene burns. A stovetop flares against the backdrop of an ashen night.

Somewhere on the streets below, they hear the clip-clop of horse-drawn carriages.

And then, unexpectedly, Francis gives in.

He awkwardly rubs the back of his head with one hand, eyes squeezed shut. As he frowns, he mutters, "I suppose... I suppose I could have been a little more considerate."

"I suppose you could have," Arthur replies coldly.

Tersely, he turns back around and pretends to take a sudden interest in the silhouette of the night-sunken city.

Behind him, Francis has fallen silent. In the bitter quiet that follows, time slows to a mere crawl. Eventually, as if he senses the tension in the air, he shuffles his feet and hesitantly mumbles something under his breath.

"What was that?" Arthur asks darkly. "Could you speak louder, please?"

"Nothing."

_Shuffle. Shuffle._ His words start knocking each other down like dominoes. "I mean," Francis stammers, "I'm sorry."

The baggage handler stops.

"Sorry." Nervously, he laughs. His eyes dart to Arthur's, as if gauging for a reaction. "I promise this won't occur again. You have some courage, speaking to me with that attitude. I'm impressed."

Arthur could have responded to this in a million different ways.

In another universe, he might have accepted the apology out of surprise. He might have scoffed, unimpressed with the words of a stranger clearly drawn to impulse. Or perhaps, he might have sighed and brushed it off in the typical manner that he'd come to expect from himself.

But for some reason that eluded him, he couldn't bring himself to attempt any of these approaches.

So instead, he responds with the only option left. Changing the topic.

"So," he abruptly says.

Francis tenses.

"Why are you here, really?"

It's such a strange question, asked at the strangest of times, that for a second, all Francis can do is stare. Arthur meets his gaze unflinchingly, almost calmly, but inside he's uneasy. _Why do I keep doing this?_ he wonders, agitated. _I could have walked away and avoided this whole mess, but instead, I'm making a fool out of myself. And for what? Morbid curiosity? __The buried __secrets of a man I have never known? The knowledge that I could have—_

"I thought you weren't a fan of poking into others' personal lives," Francis observes. There's a hint of amusement tugging at his lips, but still, Arthur doesn't miss the shadow in his gaze. "So much for consistency."

"You started this conversation. Am I not even allowed to ask questions anymore?"

At this, Francis pauses.

"Well," he says, raising an eyebrow, "I suppose that since I don't have any particularly urgent matters to attend to, I might as well entertain your curiosity." As if hoping to lighten the mood, he tries for a smile. "After all, you asked so kindly."

"Did I?"

Francis shrugs. "Something like that."

"Well, get on with it, then. I still have work tomorrow, you know."

"Ah, yes, of course," Francis grins, snapping his fingers. "Which gets me to my next point."

Arthur raises an incredulous eyebrow. _He ignored my question. _"You mean, you're going to get a job while you're here?"

"What?"

"A job."

"Ah, well... not exactly." The other man seems to wilt slightly at this idea.

"Let me guess," Arthur sighs. "Is it because of your father's spectacularly deep pockets?"

For a split second, Francis looks almost startled. And then he quickly regains his bearing, and shrugs. "You could put it that way. What occupation could I possibly fill, anyway? That of another factory worker?"

He laughs, as if the idea of anyone working an egregious number of hours under countless health hazards, constant noise pollution, and unsanitary living conditions were faintly ridiculous. Arthur grits his teeth, but ignores it. "I suppose you have a point."

Below them, the city noise grows thinner and thinner as the night wears on. It's a gradual shift, and nearly indiscernible to most—but Arthur has spent too many nights in this place, and the pattern has already carved itself onto his mind like a slave's brand. He notices everything: the factory lights in the distance, the gentleman giving orders to the carriage driver, the waif slipping unnoticed through a murmuring crowd. All fading to the background. All part of the machine that worked but never slept, the weaving mechanism that spun misfortune into efficiency and life into death.

_How productive._

"You know," Francis suddenly says quietly, with a chuckle. "You're the first person who's ever called me out like this."

Without warning, it starts to rain.

_They're like teardrops,_ Arthur notices. Tiny teardrops of liquid sand, cooling into glass shards as they hit the ground.

"And—don't get me wrong. I... I'm not delusional like my younger brother. But you call things as they are. You're honest, though you're neither cruel nor petty—and I suppose that's what I like about you, if that makes sense."

Bullets. Hard, translucent bullets, fired from the clouds and swallowed by the night.

_You're wrong,_ Arthur thinks quietly. _I am petty. Pettier than you will ever know._

"So, I guess what I'm trying to say is," Francis finishes, looking up, "I don't... I don't resent you for what you said. And maybe we could both learn to become better acquainted in the future, if you want."

He pauses. Tension fills the air once again, but this time, it's out of anticipation rather than anger. "That's all."

The rain falls harder.

The night grows darker.

Somewhere beneath the other man's waistcoat, there builds the irregular crescendo of a pounding heart. _I'm not scared,_ he insists to himself, even though he knows that it's not a question of _whether_ but _what_, _if_ but _why_.

And then Arthur laughs. He laughs the way a man might on the day after a funeral, the bitter in hiding, the sweet so forced—and he claps, the sarcasm so thickly veiled that he's not even sure whether it's there. "Well said, friend. Well said. What a nice speech that was. Now, let's get out of the rain before I'm soaked from head to toe."

"Prick," Francis mutters, but he's smiling. "Why is it always raining here, anyway?"

"You're asking me?" Arthur snorts. Shielding his head against the torrent, he splashes past the other man's figure and begins making his way toward the staircase. "Anyway, I should go. Unbelievable as it may be, I do need to sleep. Perhaps you should do so as well."

He's almost halfway down the steps when he realizes that Francis isn't following him.

Faltering, he glances over his shoulder.

He furrows his eyebrows.

"Mr. Bonnefoy?"

At first, what he sees there on the rain-drowned rooftop doesn't quite register. It's a double agent, almost—something like deception that feels like the truth, a broken image hiding lies behind its painted forms. There's the rain, the sky. The drawing. And then the anomaly in the picture—Francis, with his back facing an invisible audience.

Francis, one heel parallel, the other a pillar for the sum of his weight.

It's a simple dance, but Arthur can't help himself, can't help but stare at the other man's graceful movements as he swivels on his heel and pivots toward the far end of the rooftop. A small step, a pointed foot, a semicircle traced across wet concrete. He teeters close to the edge at one point—too close—and Arthur winces, but it's at that moment when Francis catches himself and stops.

Hesitantly, he turns back around and smiles.

His pale, wavy hair is matted to his skin like ghostly tentacles.

"Well?" he prompts.

Arthur raises an eyebrow. Looks behind him, to the darkness below. Above, to the blinding rain. And finally, back to the sopping wet figure in front.

"You," he says slowly, "look ridiculous."

And then he spins around and disappears down the staircase without another word.

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The next day, he's there.

He's waiting.

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It never occurred to Arthur just how lonely he is until he realizes that he's meeting Francis almost every day.

Gradually, as the days inch toward summer and the nights toward diminution, his curiosity about the foreigner only grows—and, by contrast, his frustration. He doesn't quite understand why he keeps coming back for more (the man is a hypocritical twat who wouldn't be able to keep his mouth shut if he tried), but he supposes that it's only desperation that leads him here. Desperation, and instinct.

The human tribe has abandoned him a long time ago, but he's far from the only outcast.

On the fourth day, when Arthur arrives on the rooftop for another half hour of banter, Francis is more solemn than usual. His gaze is introspective, his expression a silent question—and when Arthur finally breaks the silence, the faraway glow in his eyes barely shifts.

"Well?" he'd asked gruffly. "What's the matter?"

In his head, the mockery had already begun. _Oh, so you want to go back home?_ he imagined saying bitterly, always a stranger in the city of his childhood. _To your doting mother? Your brother? Your servants? Your_ _fiancé? Do you even have a __fiancé?_

_Actually, let me guess, you're already—_

"Arthur, you don't seem too pleased to be here," Francis frowns. "Am I doing something wrong?"

Abruptly, he snaps back to attention. His cheeks suddenly feel uncomfortably warm, and he hates the unexpected sense of remorse that runs through him at the thought of his unvoiced contempt. "You tell me," he shoots back.

Incredulously, Francis stares. A strange intensity has taken root in the irises of his eyes, like a hollow flame in concave blue. "If you hate me so much, then why do you always come to this rooftop? Why do you choose to start a conversation with me? _Why the hell are you still here?_"

"First of all, I _choose_ to speak with you in very much the same way that I _choose_ to go to work," Arthur replies, gritting his teeth. "I'll let you figure that one out on your own."

"Why, then—"

"Secondly, I'm the one you should be asking that first question to. Why am _I _here? I've been coming up to the rooftop since the day I moved into this flat. _Y__ou_, on the other hand? You—"

"Look, you don't own this place," Francis scowls, standing his ground. "How much did you pay for a room in this sordid excuse of an apartment block, anyhow? Surely not enough to buy special access to the rooftop vicinity?"

"You know, if you really think so poorly of this residence—"

"You're dodging the question—"

"—then why don't you simply find yourself a better place to lodge? Why stay here, in this miserable run-down shack when you could be—_should be_—living a life of luxury? It would solve both of our problems, and I dare say that finance isn't the issue. So _why_?"

Temporarily winded, Francis only glares back heatedly in response. He's deflated, but only momentarily. When he finally finds his next words, his voice is taut with a bitterness that hadn't been there before.

"Well, well," he says slowly.

He appears to be choosing his words carefully.

"It seems that we have had this conversation before, haven't we?"

The shame grows within him, expanding to choke the air inside his lungs even as another part of him mutters indignantly, _What the hell does a person like you have to hide? _Instead, he swallows it, drinks it down like poison. Waits until it travels down his throat before daring to relax again.

Quietly, he lets Francis continue. But the other man, too, is silent, as if he's reluctant. As if he doesn't quite know what to say.

"Perhaps," Francis says softly, "it turns out that I was wrong about you."

Behind him, a flock of starlings abruptly takes flight. Startled, Arthur takes a step back and stares as the congregation ascends from the naked gray rooftops, winging away into the clouds in a flurry of blue and brown. _Migrating,_ he recognizes. _Migrating north for the summer, to forage and to nest._

_Have the months really passed so quickly?_

When he finally forces his gaze from the sky, Francis is gone.

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It's the fifth day, and the rooftop is empty.

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His apartment room is hardly anything to admire, especially considering the sorry state of its construction, but it _is_ where he spends the majority of his free hours, even if it doesn't quite feel like he isn't reading newspapers or taking the occasional stroll past the city park, he can be found reclining on his moth-eaten mattress, a slight ringing in his ear, staring up at the ceiling and wondering about things he'd never possess. Not the most productive activity in the world, he admits, but what else can he do?

Then, of course, there are his odd jobs. Not exactly the object of his desires, perhaps, but certainly the path to them—and he always does whatever he can to get food on the table. Chimney sweeping is one of his more frequent occupations, if not particularly respectable, but then again, neither is anything else he does. The only act he _doesn't_ do is stealing, but that was more out of fear than deference for the law. After all, he has no wish to carry out a month-long hard labor sentence.

Sometimes, on the way back to his flat, he stops by the southbound river to gaze silently at mudlarks on the hunt. A few used cigarettes must be worth more than nothing, he reckons, so he passes them by undisturbed and leaves the youngsters to their scavenging.

That, unfortunately, still leaves one more job he has yet to fulfill.

* * *

Some call it companionship, others call it obligation, and he doesn't quite care either way.

It's the sort of apathy where a man simply doesn't give a shit anymore, but more than that, it's the external expression of an internal struggle that he's been bottling up for years. Unspoken, and unheard. Then spoken, but never _voiced_.

Somewhere along the line, something went wrong.

_Say goodbye,_ Alistair had told him, bare coffin and mourning cloak, his voice weary but nowhere as exhausted as the woman beneath the wooden lid. His mother had been the first to go, but she was far from the last. The difference, as he sees it, is the disparity between material death and conceptual death. Like the contrast between a vandalized store and the one shut down for lack of business incentives. And if this is the case, then he supposes that his own pathetic little shop would just have to be closed for all eternity.

To put it plainly, he's alone.

Is.

Was. Has been, from the moment he started making a living for himself to the place where he is now, cold and wretched under the mirroring sky. He barely visits his brothers anymore, doubts they would want to see him anyway, but with those visits goes his last form of human interaction and it's stifling to say the least. _It's like a net,_ he realizes dully, an interconnected mesh of goodbyes and lights-outs, stretching until it spreads large enough to swallow him whole. He's trapped in the air, dangling thirty feet up by a single frayed rope.

Until some idiot tries to "free" him by cutting it.

To be fair to Francis, Arthur muses on the sixth day, he did eventually leave. Even if he still resides in the apartment block, he's at least had the sense to stop bothering him, and that must count for something.

_Right?_

What was it about Francis that bothered him, anyway? His mannerisms, his arrogance, or the words themselves? Thinking back to what he'd retorted that fourth night on the rooftop, Arthur decides that conversing with him _was_ practically a job in and of itself. Despite their obvious incompatibility, he'd attempted to continue the conversation anyway, treating it as a necessary sacrifice for the good of his mental well-being after months of isolation. But apparently, their differences had been too wide to breach.

It was a job, alright. An unwanted job which he had left early, frustrated, and unpaid.

Agitated, Arthur closes his eyes. He tries not to think about it too much.

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**~ Reviews are appreciated ~**


	3. noise

_**Part III**_

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A small feathered body struggles against the thick tangle of serrated leaves, black and blue among the hawthorn green. All around the treetops, starlings are taking flight, wings unfurled and tail outstretched as the congregation flutters north into the evening sky. Arthur's attention, however, is still trained on the young trapped bird. Seemingly alarmed to be caught in such a vulnerable position, it beats harder against the dense foliage and lets out an agitated squawk.

But not for long.

A few moments later, the starling finally manages to free itself and flaps off to rejoin the rest of its flock. As the air around him descends into a din of squawking and calling, Arthur leans back against the nearest tree and wonders, once again, why he bothers to come here every year. _This park is the only place I can go where the city isn't quite so loud,_ he reminds himself. _Besides, the birds aren't as awful as I remember._

He had, after all, never been to see the countryside.

His absentminded reverie is abruptly cut short by the sound of incessant bird screeching right next to his ear, far closer than he would have liked. When he turns his head sharply in the direction of the noise, he finds a positive _swarm_ of starlings all swooping back down to the pavement, fighting for space on the ground beside him. Stunned, Arthur takes a quick step back. An overhead set of claws nearly shreds his ear, and he ducks instinctively. _What the hell? Why are they_—

Then he sees it. By the edge of the flower bed stands a familiar figure, amusement on his lips and half a pastry clutched in his gloved hands. At his feet, several of the more aggressive birds in the throng are fighting for the last remaining crumbs, flapping and clawing at anything else that dares to get close as Francis watches from the sidelines in curious silence. By the time the last starling has lost interest and flown off with the rest of its flock, the park is quiet. There's only the rustling of trees in the wind, and the ever-present hum of industry in the city beyond.

For a second, Francis doesn't move.

And then he looks up. He looks up, and his smile melts away, only to be replaced by an implicit wariness that tightens his features and darkens his gaze. Still not used to seeing him so guarded, Arthur frowns and crosses his arms.

They stare at one another, unsure what to do, until Francis finally speaks up.

"Why are you here?"

Briefly, Arthur experiences a moment of déjà vu. "Oh, good question," he snaps. "Could it possibly be that this is the _only_ damn park for miles around?"

Francis's eyes flare. "Is this always how you speak with your betters? No—forget _betters_—is this how you speak with _anyone_?"

"Oh? _Betters__?_"

He looks Francis over from head to toe—thoroughly, almost mockingly—and he _sneered_.

"So," he says softly, narrowing his eyes, "you _do_ think of me as lesser after all. So much for friendship, eh?"

Arthur waits for the other man to argue back, but this time, the only response he receives is a lowered gaze. "Especially since I thought that you'd at least improved somewhat. I suppose that _apology_ was a lie, then, wasn't it?"

"No."

"Really? Then could you please enlighten me on why being born to an aristocratic family—a family of inherited wealth who has never done a thing in their lives—entitles you to _my_ respect?"

"My father manages part of an industry," Francis mutters distractedly, but he's hardly listening, eyes still on the ground, seeing something no one else sees. "And... and I..."

He trails off after that, twisting the pastry between his fretful fingers as he abruptly bites his lower lip. It suddenly occurs to Arthur then to feel sorry for him, although for what he isn't certain—just that the regret on Francis's face is growing steadily by the minute. Uselessly, he opens his mouth.

He says nothing.

Slowly, he drops the pastry. Watches it slip through his fingers and onto the carpet of leaves below. Leans back, face burning, against the armrest of a nearby park bench, as if the support would keep him standing upright. The guilt is palpable, but his distress is practically corporeal, like a monster from the shadows with its talons around his throat.

And yet, he says nothing.

Silence stretches into seconds, and seconds into minutes. By now, Francis has already settled by the foot of the bench, his face hidden behind a veil of long blond hair, and although he doesn't appear to be crying, Arthur's anger still falters. _Why the hell does this always happen to us?_ he thinks, frustrated. _Why can't we have a single conversation before it devolves into a fight__?_

Then again, why doesn't he want it to? Wouldn't the hostility between them be the perfect excuse for him to steer clear of Francis? He curses quietly in his head, waiting in vain for the other man to act first—but when it becomes clear that this is unlikely to happen, he takes a deep breath and steels his nerves.

"Look, I know you're upset."

It's an understatement. Miserably, Francis tucks his hair back behind his ears and glares up at him with distrustful eyes.

"Before you ask, I still stand by what I said earlier. If you don't get your shit together, then goodbye. I doubt that either of us would be worse off for it." He tries not to dwell on the way Francis visibly swallows as he says the words, although it's starting to bother him that he even cares. "But if you want to stay, I suppose I have no means of stopping you. Not that I would expect you to."

_God. _What was he thinking? _What am I doing?_ Surreptitiously, Arthur steals another glance in Francis's direction, half-hoping that in those sky-blue eyes, he'd find annoyance or indignation or even sheer outrage at the mere _notion_ that the son of an aristocrat would ever voluntarily associate himself with the likes of a simple laborer. Anything concrete, just so he can indulge himself in the luxury of _knowing_.

But something must have gone wrong, because the confusion he sees there only mirrors his own. And when Arthur tries to turn away, he finds that he can't. There's a barrier surrounding them, an almost physical wall that feels too high to climb and too wide to breach—a wall built from the same unanswered doubts that have plagued him ever since their last rooftop confrontation. As much as he desperately wants to move on, he's increasingly starting to realize that circumstances—and even his own cursed mind—won't be letting him go anytime soon.

_What the hell is wrong with me?_

"You... you actually do possess some dignity," Francis whispers incredulously. The second his words leave his lips, however, he seems to hit a moment of self-conscientiousness and abruptly claps a hand over his mouth. "I—I mean—"

Arthur stops him. "Save it. If you want to leave, then leave. Straightforward as that. We've been prolonging this mess for far longer than necessary. Let's end this, once and for all."

Again, he waits.

Again, he waits for the reaction that part of him wants so badly, the _how dare you_ and _how could you ever_. The coward's last hope.

Again, he's taken by surprise.

"No," Francis murmurs. His face is still red. "No, I—I'm not leaving."

He catches himself.

"If that's what you want, that is. But if you only think of me as a nuisance, then I understand. You've been deprived of choice for such a large part of your life, and I... I shouldn't be perpetuating that cycle. At the very least, I shouldn't have said the things I did earlier. It's just—I was angry, and mentality is such a hard thing to leave behind—"

A strange, twisted sentimentality worms its way into his chest. Suddenly, he finds himself alone again, sitting cross-legged by the rooftop and watching _them_ go by in the world below—the sinners and the liars, the not-quite-saints and the monsters who look out silently from their gold-painted window frames. _Mentality,_ he ponders. Rolls the word over his tongue, feels it click like the ticking of a pendulum clock. (How fitting, then, that time should be the only force pitting him deeper into it.) What _was_ it that he had felt in that moment?

"Forget it, then," Arthur growls. "Let's just both agree to not get on each other's nerves again in the future, shall we? We have to do that much. And if you ever need me for whatever reason, then you know where to bother me."

Relief washes over Francis's expression like rain over cracked pavement, and he steps forward unsteadily on two leather-clad feet. Before Arthur can react, he's already halved the distance between them, extending one open hand toward him in a gesture of peace. "A pact between gentlemen, then?" he suggests timidly. He tries for a weak smile. "If you would like?"

Wordlessly, Arthur stares. He hadn't exactly expected his little speech to have any sort of actual effect on Francis, but then again, he wasn't about to be the first person to complain. _Fine, _he finally decides. _S__o be it__. Mi__ght as well play along._

Somewhere in the back of his mind, everything falls quiet.

He grimaces and smiles right back.

Reluctantly, as if handling a wild anaconda, he takes the handshake.

The first thing that strikes him about Francis's touch is the way that he hardly even appears to _touch_ him at all—rather, the other man's fingers remain just one hair-width shy of his hand at all times, like a child's futile attempt to chase the end of his shadow. It's odd, but it sends tiny inexplicable shivers up the length of his palm—and then before he knows it, it's over. By the time they release each other's hands, the evening light has already begun to fade behind them. As the darkness reclaims the halo in Francis's bright blond hair, he gives out one final awkward smile and takes one step back.

They meet each other's eyes. Peculiarly, Arthur's fingers are still tingling from the handshake, but the night is drawing ever nearer, and he's anxious to get back to his apartment.

"Well, I should be going then," he says tersely at last. "Take care."

Francis nods, his face unreadable. "You too."

He begins to walk away. Arthur watches him go for a long, mesmerizing moment (something about his bearing makes him feel strangely nostalgic), down the walkway, past the orchids, all the way until he reaches the edge of the tiny park.

Then he abruptly stops. He turns around.

And Francis says something he can't quite hear.

"I'm sorry?" Arthur calls. "What did you just say?"

Francis repeats it, louder now, but the words still sound subdued, buried beneath layers and layers of city noise. (And cotton. Enough cotton to knit him a new blanket.)

This time, Arthur has no choice but to move closer.

"Could you repeat that for me again, please?" he calls out again, silently cursing his ears as he does so. He sidles past a small cluster of well-dressed ladies, a few of whom had stopped conversing to stare as soon as he raised his voice. "Mr. Bonnefoy?"

When he finally makes his way over to the spot where Francis stands, the other man is waiting for him, an air about him that borders on impatience—and, perhaps more subtly, a trace of curiosity. "I _said_, could you possibly pick up that pastry and dispose of it somewhere for me?" Francis asks exasperatedly for the third time. "Could you really not hear me from twenty feet away?"

In response, Arthur only raises a questioning eyebrow. Immediately, Francis's eyes shoot open wide. "That is, as a friend," he hurriedly amends. "I am not in the business of ordering you about like a house servant."

Arthur huffs and redirects his attention toward the pastry in question, as if unconvinced. It lies discarded on the ground like some abandoned childhood trinket, a delicacy that would have almost appeared appetizing if not for the specks of soil now covering its sides. _Where did he manage to buy that, anyway? _he wonders. _Did he make it himself?_

More importantly, why did he feel the need to care?

"I know," he says quietly at last. "I know."

There's a brief pause.

After a moment, he adds halfheartedly, "I wouldn't waste that thing if I were you. You could certainly afford to feed a few more birds with it, peculiar stranger."

He isn't sure whether he's joking or not. In his current state of mind, with all the exhaustion weighing down on him, he isn't sure of anything anymore.

Without even a glance back in the pastry's direction, he brushes past Francis's shoulder—the _intruder's_ shoulder—and starts walking away. If he is expecting protestations, he receives none. Which is just as well. The sun has already gone, and with it goes any pretense of willpower he exhibited. Now there's only him—and his thoughts—and the smokestacks choking out the poisoned sky as it sinks into his pores.

* * *

l|l|l|l|l|l|l

* * *

By the muddy shores where the filth drowns out the water, he picks up a pebble and decides that the evening is his to waste.

Normally, he would be too worn out after a day of work to do much of anything—but it's only been a day since he last met Francis in the city park, and the interactions they traded had left behind a strange tingle that he can't shake off. By now, it's starting to drive him mad. He could hardly even allow his mind to wander for fear that it would somehow find its way back to the stranger, except he isn't quite a stranger anymore, not by a long stretch, and Arthur still isn't completely sure what he fears in the first place but fear is oddly comforting and it's a contradiction he doesn't want to linger on—

He closes his eyes. Tries to control the flood like a border agent demands for papers.

_Stop._

As soon as he's able to calm himself down again, he opens his eyes and carefully takes aim. This particular stretch of the river, polluted from years of sewage waste and miscellaneous debris, isn't exactly his favorite place to loiter. But walking farther upstream to a more pleasant area would require energy, energy that he doesn't possess, and would hardly be worth it given the tiredness already settling into his heavy bones.

_Well,_ he thinks sheepishly, eyes on the sluggish current, _h__ere goes nothing._

He throws the pebble. It hits the water almost immediately, bouncing off the surface of the river in an eddying undulation. Once. Twice. On the third skip, it sinks, vanishing into the murk with no more than a ripple. _Dammit._ Then again, perhaps he's lucky to even make it to two in these less-than-ideal conditions.

Determinedly, Arthur scrabbles for another pebble. And then, just as he's about to make another throw, someone beats him to it.

_Splash._

He looks up, and his mouth drops open.

There's another stone skimming across the surface of the water, moving almost too quickly for his eyes to register, a tiny, indistinct blur that makes itself known only by the ripples it leaves behind. One, two, _three_. Three times, it bounces, once more than Arthur's toss had been able to accomplish. As he whirls around, he manages to catch a glimpse of the presence standing behind him—but somehow, he already knows who it must be.

"For God's sake, Francis," he sighs.

For it is he, suit crisp as always, hair tied back in a ponytail, half-smile barely reaching his eyes and wavering just slightly whenever he meets the other man's gaze. He seems to be reading Arthur's mood, or at least trying to, because his forehead is creased and he's peering at him again with those eyes that appear simultaneously cautious and hopeful.

Twirling a strand of hair around his pinkie, Francis gently laughs. "You did tell me that I could bother you whenever I felt like it."

"That wasn't what I said. You need a _reason_ to bother me, Francis."

Something is wrong. The more he tries to return to that special irritation he always reserved for Francis, the more he fails.

_What is happening to me?_

"How did you find me, anyway?"

"Arthur, we live in the same apartment block," Francis reminds him with a mock eye-roll. "And this river is only, what, fifty feet away? As for my purpose in coming here—well, the moment I saw you, I could not resist defeating you at your sad little game."

Arthur splutters.

"And now that I have, I suppose that my business here is finished. Also, your hair is still a disaster."

"I'm _sorry_?" Despite himself, he has to laugh. "Wait—that's—you can't—"

By the time that Arthur is fumbling to piece together a coherent sentence, Francis is already starting to walk away. Amused, he glances over his shoulder and risks a wink at the other man. "Oh?" he grins obnoxiously. "Have you changed your mind about wanting me here?"

_No__,_ Arthur almost retorts. He clenches his jaw. _No, I have not changed my opinion of you, thank you very much. But when you have been expecting—and dreading—a certain prospect for any length of time, there will be a part of you that continues to cling to that possibility._

But he keeps his mouth shut. Instead, he ignores Francis, narrows his eyes, and raises the pebble in his hand.

Then he takes aim—at the river.

_There._

He throws it. The splash it produces as it hits the river is loud enough for Francis to stop and stare.

One. Two. Three.

Four.

"Ha!" he yells triumphantly, spinning around with a challenging glint in his eyes. "How do you like that, eh?"

"Oh, keep your voice down," Francis grumbles, but he's smiling, genuinely smiling now, a light through the mist at the end of the woods. A mischievous expression slides onto his face. He saunters back to Arthur's side, much to the latter's disdain, then hesitates and clears his throat. "How about a wager between you and me?" he suggests. "On whomever manages to win the next round?"

"And what are we betting?"

"Ah, nothing much." His smile only grows at Arthur's obvious interest. "The winner will ask one question, and the losing individual has to answer it as truthfully as he can. That is all."

A sudden rush of excitement pounds through his ears.

"Deal," Arthur smirks.

_What am I doing?_ he wonders, surely not for the first time in Francis's presence.

Then again, perhaps it doesn't even matter. After all, the bet has already been made.

Now he only needs to win.

"Good," Francis hums. If he's surprised at Arthur's reaction, he doesn't show it. "Well then, I suppose I'll start."

It takes hardly a while for him to find a suitable pebble, and even less for him to take aim. The moment it touches the water, it sinks with barely a sound. Francis curses.

"Your effort really showed," Arthur observes dryly.

Before Francis can respond, he picks up a stone of his own and begins studying the river surface. There isn't much he can do with the water as grimy as it is, and he doubts he could even get four rebounds again—but if he could somehow get just the right angle...

Carefully, he makes his toss. His breath catches in his throat as the stone bounces—not one, not two, but three times.

"Let me try," Francis insists stubbornly, pushing his way to the forefront to make another attempt. This time, he manages to complete three as well.

He glances over at Arthur with a question in his gaze.

The other man shrugs, not exactly knowing how but still being able to understand him all the same. "Sure, try again."

And thus follows the single shortest stone skipping tournament in which Arthur has ever engaged, and indeed the only stone skipping tournament, as he watches Francis make throw after throw and attempt after attempt despite the increasing futility. Eventually, he gives up, dramatically hurling his hands into the air and wailing, "Oh God, it's over for me!"

"It is," Arthur agrees, trying and failing not to let his amusement show. He squints, frowns for a while as he slowly ponders over the terms of the bet. And then he sighs. "Do I really need to do this?"

"Any question would do," Francis replies with a cock of his head, sheepishly dropping his arms back to his sides. "It can be as trivial as you want. Or you could simply decide not to. Not that I would complain."

Arthur hesitates.

_This is my opportunity to leave_, he thinks.

But even to him, it sounds hollow.

He ruminates over their past conversations, the boundaries they've overstepped, the trust they've been building up and tearing down, over and over. The pointed inquiries that went nowhere, like dirty water circling a clogged drain. On one hand, he knows he shouldn't be rude, especially after their last truce. But on the other hand—_on the other hand_—

Sweat starts collecting on the base of his palm. _Compromise,_ he tells himself. _Ask__ him a silly question that we couldn't possibly fight over._

So he thinks, back to the hazy, nebulous memories of his childhood, searching for any point of interest to latch onto. When he's finally able to settle on something, he doesn't entirely understand why, and he feels strange for even entertaining the question.

But he asks:

"When you were a child... was there a certain monster you were particularly afraid of? Why? And what did it look like in your mind?"

Perhaps it's only Arthur's imagination, but he can almost swear that Francis had tensed at his words. "That's an oddly specific question, Arthur."

Nonetheless, he reflects on it for quite a time. The other man can practically see him trying to make up his mind. And finally he says—

"Yes."

Arthur waits.

"He... he wore a frock coat." Francis looks away. "A knee-length frock coat with a velvet collar, top hat, and cane. A... a stare that followed me wherever I went. A lazy voice that somehow never rose above a whisper. But above all, the thing that unsettled me the most about him was that he was real."

There's a long, uncomfortable silence.

Suddenly, it becomes glaringly obvious why Francis has never been eager to speak of his family.

"You..." Arthur murmurs, feeling strangely guilty for a reason he can't explain.

He catches himself.

"You didn't have to do that. Share something from your real life, I mean."

"It's fine." Francis chuckles, pursing his lips. "I was never particularly interested in fantasy, anyway."

With a small raise of his eyebrows, Arthur nods awkwardly before beginning to fidget with his sleeves. He doesn't understand why he's suddenly acting so shy, but he has the distinct feeling that he's somehow responsible for the rise of this situation. Because in a way, he _is_. Who was it that had persisted pestering the other man with questions, long after Francis had made it clear that he wasn't interested in answering them? Who was it that had brought up this topic in the first place?

"So, Arthur." At Francis's voice, he abruptly jolts back to the present. Looking up, he can see that his eyes are rimmed with concern. _Odd._ "Do... do you have any interests you'd like to share?"

"Huh?"

Caught off guard, Arthur only laughs nervously. "Interests? I don't know about that. I'm only one drop of muddy water in this entire godforsaken river. What interests could I possibly have?"

"There it goes again," Francis interrupts with a frown. "Like when you compared conversing with me with going to work. You do seem like a rather fascinating person, however presumptuous and graceless."

Cheekily, he manages to crack a smile. "Then again, I'm sure you're not all terrible."

Hot embarrassment rises to the surface of his skin. "Well..." Arthur starts lamely.

What _can_ he say, anyway? Reading newspapers isn't exactly the most thrilling activity, and there's no way he's bringing up his birdwatching habits.

Then he realizes something. _That pastry Francis fed the starlings with in the city park._ What if baking is one of his hobbies? Surely, he could extrapolate upon this assumption to fake a decent response.

"I... I suppose I occasionally cook?" Arthur says uncertainly.

He was right. Before he can even finish his sentence, Francis is already beaming, face shining with an enthusiasm that startles Arthur into attentiveness. "Oh, is that true?" he cries. "Well, if that isn't something! What do you usually cook?"

Arthur muses over the tiny slabs of beef he reserves for special occasions and wisely decides not to comment. "It's nothing, really. Just a little something here and there to break up the routine bread and butter."

"Still." Francis waves this off. "I would be more than happy to experience the fruits of your labor. Would you be so kind as to send me a sample sometime?"

Oh, hell. What is he doing?

_No, thank you,_ he almost says, but what comes out instead is, "Where exactly do you intend us to meet?"

"I hadn't realized that you would forget about your little hideout so soon," Francis huffs. He winks. "Unless you wish to meet inside my room? It's the sixth door from the entrance, if you're—"

"The rooftop will do, thank you very much," Arthur interrupts irritably, taking a seat on the gravelly riverside sand.

It's getting dark. Once again, shadowed bandits are stealing back the warmth of the sky under cover of night—the perfect excuse for Arthur to leave. The same excuse that he has always used.

Without warning, he hears Francis settling down beside him.

_Well, I should go,_ he would say, shaking the grit from his trousers, and perhaps in those light blue eyes he'd find a trace of disappointment. But this time, he stays put for a little while longer. This time, he holds the disappointment at bay, holds it like a ransom in exchange for a few minutes of company.

The first act of thievery he has ever committed.

* * *

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* * *

**oh god fran doesn't know what he's getting himself into**

**~ Reviews are appreciated ~**


	4. clouds

_**Part IV**_

* * *

The clouds above are the palest he's ever seen as he stumbles stiffly up the staircase, bleached so white that they appear almost sickly. Ordinarily, the smog would be thick enough to coat them in a heavy suit of rusted armor, but summer is fast approaching, and the day is unusually clear. _Unfortunately,_ he adds darkly. If he ends up having the nerve to actually follow through with his plans, he wouldn't exactly want anyone passing by in the streets below to notice him.

_I'll make this as quick as possible._

To be perfectly honest, Arthur is not even sure what had led him to this grim decision in the first place—or rather, what had finally tipped him over the edge. Dire as his situation seems, both interpersonally and financially, he'd never quite thought that it would come to something like _this_.

Then again, it's not as if he has never seriously entertained the possibility before. Of course he has—for at least a week now at that—although the choice was admittedly born more out of desperation than anything else. And if there's one thing he knows for certain in this dragging carcass of a city (bruised bronze skies turn anemic on sunny afternoons), it's that desperation brings out the devils in him.

Or perhaps he's being dramatic. After all, he might as well make use of the available time.

Today, he offers up the only charity he can afford to give.

_The snip-snip-snip of cut __rope mesh—_

He stops, hand on the railing. Squints through the sun to the rooftop vicinity—_past_ it, almost—as if searching for a phantom in the air.

_Falling from the ceiling—_

Something is off. Tensely, he cranes his neck for a better view.

_A startled cry—_

There's nothing.

Incredulously, Arthur stares at the empty space where Francis should be, and curses. In his hands is a platter of hastily cooked (and burned) onion slices, sandwiched between two slices of dry bread in a hopeless defiance of basic gastronomical sense.

_Of course he's not here,_ he reasons, trying to quell that strange _feeling _suddenly welling inside him.

_Of course I shouldn't have expected that bastard to even honor his own word._

Annoyed, he shakes his head and disappears back down the staircase.

* * *

The first thing that occurs to him as he slinks back under the shadows is that he wasted an entire morning preparing food he didn't need.

The second is the realization that his previous conclusion is actually incorrect.

In fact, there is still something he can attempt.

_But why would I?_

As with all individuals on the verge of losing an argument with themselves, he stops in his tracks and leans back against the wall, mind spinning. The vaguely acidic odor that he has almost come to associate with the building itself wafts through the corridor air. Hasn't Francis already given him the directions to his apartment room, in that conversation by the muddy river banks? What was it that he had said, all those days ago?

Six doors down from the entrance?

Why did he remember such a detail, anyway?

_You fool,_ Arthur fumes, detaching himself from the wall and stalking toward the opposite end of the corridor—to the staircase leading to the ground floor. _Haven't you been spending all your energy up until this point making excuses to get away from him?_

But he must have left his self-control behind on the rooftop, because his feet don't stop at the first stair, nor the second, nor the remainder of the steps on the skeleton stairway until it's already too late.

The plate bounces against his stomach as he rounds the corner onto the ground floor landing. Sunlight illuminates the gray granite tiles of the floor beneath him, bleak as a winter yet still breathing life into the dusty shadows dancing around his feet. And on the other side of the narrow corridor—a small, humble entryway.

Promptly, Arthur scans the row of doors and counts silently in his head. _There._ It looks exactly like every other door on the floor, and for a moment he wonders if Francis had been bluffing him.

Then he notices the tiny purple ribbon tied to the handle and sighs.

It's definitely his room, alright.

Reluctantly, he walks up to the door.

He knocks, careful to keep the plate balanced in one hand.

"Mr. Bonnefoy?" he calls.

No response.

_Probably messing about in the city somewhere. __That twat. _Secretly, though, he's not sure whether to feel vexed, disappointed, or relieved. Just another one of Francis's attributes that annoys the hell out of him—the way he constantly leaves him baffled and bewildered, as if they were enemy nations at war and he was trying to distract him from his next move. "At least it keeps me on my feet," he mutters under his breath. Wasn't that similar to something his mother had always said? _Y__ou wouldn't rather let them catch you off guard than stay wary and alert, would you?_

But then again, what reason does he have to listen to her? Anger builds in his head, the ringing in his right ear becoming discernible once more. _She's the cause for—_

A sudden _thwack_ resonates from inside the room, and Arthur jolts back to attention. It sounds like paper hitting a wall, and he raises a bushy eyebrow in concern just as the feeble sunlight abruptly dims beyond the grimy windows. _Clouds passing by. Must be about to rain again. Shame._

"Francis?" he calls through the door again, barely registering the fact that he has never referred to the man with his forename before. "Are you there?"

A long pause. Arthur tries to imagine what Francis must be doing behind those wooden boards, what could possibly have caused the noise. "Hello?"

And then, just as he's about to give up and leave—

"Arthur?"

His voice sounds oddly high-pitched, almost subdued, as if he hadn't been expecting the other man to be here at all. Arthur gets the feeling he's interrupted him in the middle of something.

"Wh-Why are you..."

"My cooking, remember?" he answers uncomfortably. _Fuck. I knew this was a terrible idea from the beginning. _"You said you wanted a sample?"

He hears the scraping of feet, then the faint sound of paper being swept aside. Some part of him almost expects Francis to turn him away on the spot.

But once again, he's taken by surprise.

With a click, the handle turns, and the door creaks open.

The first thing that hits Arthur about the room, strikingly enough, is the light. A number of bracketed kerosene lamps hang on the opposite wall from floor to ceiling like some bizarre candleworks display, and he has to force himself to shield his eyes against the sudden flare. By the corner of the room, stylishly floral curtains have been hurriedly affixed to either side of a tiny window, a vain attempt to furnish what would have otherwise been little more than four barren walls.

"Arthur, thank you for coming," Francis greets, cheeks tinged a flustered pink. He peers at the plate in Arthur's hands. "Please forgive the..."

He raises an eyebrow at the sandwich, then trails off.

Before Francis can have the opportunity to comment on his cooking, Arthur clears his throat and gestures vaguely in the direction of the light (it's much too bright to even fix his gaze on). "I'm sorry, but what the hell are these lamps for? Did I just interrupt you in the middle of a satanic ritual?"

"There are no light fixtures anywhere in this cursed place, so obviously, I had to buy a replacement somehow," Francis huffs. "And it just so happened that paraffin lamps were the only available substitutes I could find. Why, do you have a problem with my decision?"

Arthur looks at the lamps again and feels his eyeballs beginning to melt.

"Of course not. I see absolutely no problem here at all."

"Well, perhaps you're right," Francis admits with a sigh. "Perhaps I did go a little overboard. But in any case, don't just stand there. Let's head inside, where we can properly..."

He steals another dissatisfied glance at the plate. "Appreciate your... effort."

_Just say you're disappointed and tell me to leave already,_ Arthur wants to shout. In his mind, equanimity is walking a thin tightrope. _You introduced yourself as a fucking narcissist. __The least you can do now is be consistent._

Still, it shouldn't be bothering him nearly this much. He has never been a stranger to prejudice, and neither has anyone else who grew up in this part of the city.

_Right?_

In front of him, Francis raises his eyebrows expectantly, then steps aside, as if waiting for the other man to proceed first. Arthur doesn't move.

And then a slip of paper falls from Francis's fingers—_how hasn't he noticed it up until now?_—and drifts to the floor.

A slip of paper with a dignified, austere signature.

_A... a letter?_

Before he can peruse the actual contents of the letter, Francis hastily snatches it back up and crumples it in his hands. His face is stiff, unreadable, but in a few moments' time he manages to force a smile again. His teeth are so blinding in the saturating light.

"Oh, I'm sorry," he tut-tuts nervously. He grips the edges of the paper so tightly that his knuckles turn white. "My hand just slipped there for a second."

Pointedly, he marches over to his desk, where an opened envelope sits by a stack of books, and seizes it rather roughly. He rips it once, straight down the middle. Then again. And again. By the doorway, Arthur watches motionlessly in quiet unease.

Soon enough, the envelope has been reduced to pieces. Francis's expression is still agitated by the time he turns back around to face him, but he's obviously trying to avoid meeting his eyes, so Arthur says nothing.

Then Francis looks up at last, and Arthur finally gathers the courage to ask the question on his mind. It's short, but he can think of no other way to express it.

"Parents?" he guesses gruffly.

By the desk, Francis chokes as if he'd been shot.

He opens his mouth indignantly to respond, then abruptly clamps it shut again.

Outside, the sky briefly clears. And then, in typical fashion, it starts to _rain_.

Right through the sunshine.

"Just come in already," he grunts, as if exasperated. But the sad twinkle in his eyes betrays him.

Something tells him that he has caused enough trouble already. Arthur complies without another word.

* * *

The bag at the foot of the bedroll is impossible not to notice.

Somehow, it still looks exactly the same as it did on the day they met, and an unexpected pang of nostalgia runs through him. _I can't believe it's already been weeks,_ Arthur muses.

But if it's been _weeks_, then why hasn't it even been fully unpacked yet?

Reluctantly, his attention shifts toward the small, plain desk by the corner of the room. Aside from the pile of hardcover books—the gold print of which instantly draws Arthur's interest—a framed photograph leans against the wall, solemn and earnest in its monochrome fade. Narrowing his gaze, he focuses on the face in the picture and raises an eyebrow in recognition.

"So this is you?" he ventures.

Despite still seeming somewhat self-conscious, Francis nods. "They took it five years ago, when I was fourteen." In the photograph, his hair has been neatly combed back in short, wavy tufts, and he appears very visibly awkward. He sighs regretfully. "I don't even remember bringing it with me. It... it was a waste of space, really."

"Well, you certainly had enough space to fit a bedroll," Arthur points out. "Although not a desk, I presume?"

Francis cracks a smile. "No."

"Did you _really_ find the need to buy one?"

"I needed to find a way to read somehow," Francis complains. "How else would I pass the time in such a dismal city?"

He pulls up the wooden stool by the edge of the desk and takes a seat, frowning. The patterns of dents on the chipped, peeling paint of the apartment room walls stare back at them like the unwilling subjects of a family portrait. Like they had been left forever to develop, on photographic plates smeared with collodion and loaded into dark slides.

Like they had been frozen in time.

Unsure what to say, Arthur stands by idly as Francis picks up the topmost book on the stack and begins flipping through it absentmindedly. Rain continues to patter on the windowpanes above them, the only distraction that doesn't bother him as much as it does others. _At least that's one good thing that came out of her death,_ he mulls resentfully.

Suddenly, Francis slams the cover shut.

"Arthur?" he says quietly.

His eyes darken.

"May I ask you something?"

Creasing his forehead in curiosity, Arthur twists his gaze away from fourteen-year-old Francis to study the man in front of him. Despite the apparent composure of his words, he's clearly anxious, wringing his hands together tightly in useless apprehension. "Go ahead," he answers.

He wasn't sure what he was expecting, really, but Francis looks even more uncomfortable at his reply—and he wonders, with a twinge of irritation, what else he could even have said. _This isn't a game I can win, is it?_

"Francis—"

"Tell me," he says softly, "everything you hate about me."

In the alley behind the apartment walls, there echoes the dampened sound of splashing feet in the downpour.

Arthur's throat goes dry.

_What?_

"I realize this may be an odd request." Francis swallows, drops his gaze, winces from an invisible wound that only he can feel. "But I... I want to know. I _need_ to know. So that I can... I can..."

After a moment, he trails off.

A heavy silence drips down his chin and onto the floorboards between them.

Arthur's mind is still whirling. Faintly, he's aware of the new, strange emotion squeezing its way into his ribcage, so similar yet so _alien_ to him at the same time. Confusion? Pity? Contempt?

Anger?

_Anger._ But not at Francis, his brothers, or even himself. No—this time the anger is directed somewhere else. To a place—a _state of mind_—that has imprisoned him for years. That may as well have just found its next victim.

Slowly, he lifts his chin.

And he meets Francis's eyes with the unflinching stare of one who has _doubted_. (What a dreadfully beautiful contradiction.)

"No."

The silence briefly rebounds off the floor, then drops and rolls to a stop like a fluctuating telegraph signal.

Francis's head shoots up.

For a moment, the only actress manipulating his expression is one of surprise. She dances under the limelight, casting ephemeral shadows over his eyes as she glides swiftly across the stage with polished leaps and twirls. But Arthur's gaze remains unwavering. Before long, another performer joins in. And another. Of confusion, of hesitance, of curiosity he hardly dares to express.

Of hope.

In a matter of seconds, the play is over. The stage is abandoned, the curtains drawn into a frown that stretches across his soft features. Something about that point in time—something about the way his face shatters into a kaleidoscope of emotions—steals Arthur's breath away, and he feels the sudden, compelling urge to break eye contact.

But Francis holds his silence. He holds his silence, and he chains it to his ankle so that his companion may speak.

Arthur's heart lurches. Kicks itself into motion like a racehorse in a gallop. _Well,_ he presses himself, _go on. __You're director for the day, and you'll be the one to determine what plays in the theater._

So he steadies his breath, and prepares his next words.

"Francis," he begins cautiously, setting the plate down on the desk.

He closes his eyes. Detects the other man's gaze on him as plainly as if they were still open. "First of all, forgive me for doubting the good faith of your intentions in seeking such a favor.

"I say this not to accuse you of duplicity, but to prevent you from falling into the same trap that I once did. And I hate to assume, but since it's already become somewhat of a habit, I might as well hope that it does you some good." A bitter chuckle leaves his lips. "I don't know whether you've been aware of this all along. I don't even know whether this will be relevant to you. But for what it's worth—what hurts isn't always true."

_There. _He said it. It was right there, suspended in the air between him and Francis, and almost immediately he starts to regret the words he hung out to dry. Yet he continues, his voice burning quicker, _higher_ with every syllable, because what else could he do?

"I don't believe it would be necessary to bore you with all the details concerning my early life," Arthur sighs, pursing his lips. "Suffice to say, I was directionless—as directionless as I could be, in any case, with the road I was traveling being the only one I could have taken. I was a young lad who questioned too much but sought too little, and I needed an _explanation_. And you know whom I trusted to find me the truth?"

He doesn't wait for an answer. "_Myself._ Of course! I had no one, but realized that I knew myself better than anyone else ever would, and so I delved deep within and never emerged again. Gradually, I learned to stop questioning—the things I uncovered, the things I told myself. Allowed my biases to control me. Made the flimsiest of excuses to justify my self-hatred. And by the time it was all over, I could barely separate fabrication from reality. Fabrication from _myself_."

_Stop,_ he can virtually hear his ghosts plead. _You promised me you'd never tell. You promised me you'd protect the one secret you ever had. You promised!_

But the outcry rings empty in his ears.

It's already too late.

"So," he laughs quietly, "I suppose that is all. You may interpret this however you wish. And keep in mind that I don't know shit."

In the darkness behind his eyelids, he forges a smile. A smile of worth and ruin.

A smile that nearly kills him.

And he opens his eyes—to find Francis _staring_.

His jaw is dropped, his eyebrows arched high over the crest of his forehead in a golden half-crown. Shock glistens on his face, glitters like diamonds in the glaring lamplight—and for the first time in years, Arthur is _afraid_.

_I should never have said anything,_ he realizes, _I should have just refused and left without another word,_ and in that moment it all becomes oh-so-awfully-clear to him how easily he's been _fooled_. Of course Francis has no reason to accept his _help_—no reason for Arthur to have poured out his deepest vulnerabilities, only to be faced with certain ridicule. Francis is noble-born, but _he_ is not, and that is all they will ever be.

And now—

_And now—_

"Arthur," Francis breathes incredulously, eyes shining with something less than sandpaper. "_Arthur._"

On the floorboards, the pulse jumps again. The pulse of life and quiet and thought and word, picking up sound like a telephone receiver picks up electric impulses.

And then Francis rises to his feet, arms outstretched. He reaches out somberly, with all the silence of a mourner and none of the rue.

Before Arthur can object, he pulls him into a hug. A wordless performance.

Yet the pulse goes wild—and waves of analogue shatter across the floor as Francis buries his head in his shoulder.

* * *

Arthur tries to resist, of course. Squirms and twists and protests angrily through muffled cloth—all merely a cover for the belated astonishment he's struggling to disguise. But behind the cotton mask, his mind is practically at war with itself.

_What the fuck does he think he's doing?_ is his first reaction, visceral with indignation as he senses Francis's warm skin against the crook of his neck. _Is he honestly delusional enough to believe that physical affection can win him over to my good side?_

_What the hell?_

Then another voice, hushed this time.

_What have I done?_

Because, of course, all roads lead back to guilt.

He stops attempting to shove him away only after Francis shoots him a perplexed glance—but even then, he rests his arms firmly by his sides. The world will run out of humans, he decides, before he ever stoops to _his_ level. And so they stand together in the same awkward position for about as long as Arthur can bear, their bodies pressed so closely that he can detect the other man's heartbeat through his tight-fitting vest. (God, Francis's arms hardly even touch his waist, and yet Arthur can still feel the heat emanating from his skin.)

Hesitantly, cornflower blue meets ocean green. Questions change hands, cross bridges over the silent waves.

And then Arthur pushes him away and scowls.

"What the hell was that?" he demands. "Why—_why did you just_—"

"To convey my empathy and gratitude?" Francis rolls his eyes. _That smug bastard. _"Really, Arthur, do you not understand the most rudimentary principles of human interaction?"

"_Rudimentary__?_ I'm sorry, I wasn't aware that social interaction necessitated the invasion of my personal space." Huffily, Arthur brushes himself off, as if Francis were contagious. "For God's sake, don't you hail from a family of _nobles_? Haven't they taught you _anything_? I'd assumed you'd have better manners than this."

For a moment, Francis looks almost stumped. Bashfully, he leans back against the desk, edges digging into his back as he drifts off into deep thought.

Then abruptly, he clears his throat.

"Ah, but that is where you err, my dearest Arthur!" he declares dramatically. "Was it not you who implied that one who knows oneself best may be their own downfall?"

Arthur sighs. "What?"

"Well, case in point! I am of the upper classes—and yet I refuse to abide by the restrictive customs of my family. I will not confine myself on the basis of—" here, he winks as he begins quoting the other man— "an excuse as _flimsy_ as societal taboos!"

Perhaps unnervingly, Arthur only continues to stare.

In an almost amused fashion, Francis gazes back and raises an eyebrow.

A momentary period of silence ensues.

"Anyway," Arthur announces a little too loudly, turning away, "I'm going to interpret that as my cue to leave. Return the plate tomorrow. And wash it first, will you?"

"Of course!" Francis calls after him chirpily.

He watches him walk away, eyes boring curiously into his rigid back. Right as he reaches the door, he adds gently, "Thank you."

Arthur stops. A peculiarly hazy sentiment wraps around his heart—a sentiment that, ironically, he can't quite wrap his head around.

_Well, it can't hurt to return the favor,_ he convinces himself.

"You too, I suppose," he replies gruffly, and then he opens the door and steps outside to the sound of the pouring rain.

* * *

When they meet on the rooftop the next day, Francis hands him the empty plate and graciously informs him that his cooking tastes like shit.

"You mean, I'm not as privileged as you to have the same time and resources conducive to a productive cooking environment?" Arthur asks sarcastically. "What a surprise."

Time and resources are obviously not the only factors at play, he knows, but he's much too stubborn to admit to his own shortcomings, and he enjoys bantering with Francis for the sake of it anyway. Today, they're sitting side by side at the edge of the rooftop, parched clouds above and crowds below, saturated with sound and color and movement. Fortunately, Arthur's day hasn't been particularly stressful on his mind, and he happens to be in a rather good mood. Unfortunately, as always, Francis is bound to have it ruined.

_Right?_

Mentally, he nudges himself, as if trying to kick-start the combustion reaction that has already emerged in familiar fire. But to his irritation, the stovetop remains as empty as ever—as empty as the cold nights it used to fill. Slowly, he realizes with a feeling of unease that this has been occurring more and more frequently lately. Is this supposed to mean that Francis doesn't bother him anymore?

_That can't be,_ he insists adamantly to himself. _Even if we've grown more acquainted with each other, he'll always be the same conceited fool __to me._

Beside him, Francis laughs softly, then begins fidgeting distractedly with his fingers. _Odd._ "You seem to imagine that all I ever do is sit around my apartment all day. On the contrary, I actually don't have as much leisure time as you might believe."

"Oh, is that so?" Disbelievingly, Arthur snorts. "What could possibly be occupying your precious time, then, _Mr. Bonnefoy_?" Despite his apparently dismissive attitude, however, he's a bit more curious than he'd care to admit.

_What if he stresses over his—_

"Devise new and creative ways to antagonize you, of course."

Arthur splutters.

Francis breaks out into another burst of laughter.

"Oh, I didn't mean that!" he protests. "What, did you really believe that I would spend _my_ days concerning myself with individuals like _you_? And yet you call _me_ the vain one?"

"_Narcissists_ only trust the validity of their own assumptions. I, on the other hand, was generous enough to give you the benefit of the doubt as to your sincerity."

Francis's laughter collapses into a fit of giggles at last, and Arthur squints at him suspiciously.

"Why do you keep giggling?" he interrupts. "Are you drunk?"

"Oh, nothing." He wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. "It's nothing."

It's at that moment when Arthur is finally able to see past the colors of the sky, the light, the night—the _sunset_ colors. And he realizes that he's done it at last. He's discovered the fire. The elusive fire that lies between him and Francis.

But something is wrong. It's a different flame.

A blue flame.

And it's one he doesn't like.

* * *

One day after work, the railway station alight in a drizzle of gold, Francis joins Arthur at the bench where he sits, gazing out wordlessly at the last few passengers as they merge seamlessly into the departing crowd. Arthur says nothing. The colors in the sky are pretty but quarrelsome, like complementary archangels of the sunset. It's strange, how well blue and orange look together, not quite mixed but simply coexisting side by side in a small, bleak world.

There's a pointed silence.

Then—

"I thought you hated your work."

Francis. Of course. Blurting out again, at the most inopportune of times. Arthur hums in amusement without glancing over, then laces his fingers together. "Sure, when I'm actually suffering through it. Especially when my mind starts to wander off, yet has nowhere to travel. But it's still a pastime of mine to watch the crowds go by."

"Ah. I see."

With a long, drawn-out whistle and the clanking of wheels against metal rails, the locomotive begins rolling forth. Clouds of steam blot out the horizon for a full minute, a peal of bells ringing out in the distance long after the train leaves.

"Arthur," Francis abruptly murmurs, "does the sound ever bother you?"

He shrugs. "Not particularly."

_Not that you need to know why._

"Well," Francis pouts, "I don't like it. These trains are an assault on my ears."

Neither of them say anything after that. No words, only the blissful peace inside their minds—a superficial contradiction, like energy signals in silent rooms, or twin fire in the sky.

* * *

l|l|l|l|l|l|l

* * *

"You know, Arthur—I've been thinking," Francis muses.

Saturday. The middle of the night. Francis's _room_, lamps unlit, wicks dry in their tiny glass chimneys. Arthur's skin prickles uncomfortably.

Over by the window, a fine layer of fog has spread over the glass like paper-thin sheets of ice, obscuring the world and wet to the touch. It's not raining anymore, hasn't been for hours—but the aftermath nonetheless remains, and moisture still clings to the air. From the stool by the desk, Arthur watches as Francis mutters something under his breath and presses a finger to the window. A droplet of condensation rolls down the surface of the glass, a crack in the glacier behind the inky midnight sea.

"Oh Lord, what are you doing now?" Arthur exhales exasperatedly.

Francis tilts his head, lifting his finger to the top corner of the window. Unhurriedly, he begins writing something in the condensation, although Arthur can't quite make it out. "I've been thinking—what if we created a contract on the terms of our relationship?"

"What the hell?"

With his back turned toward Arthur, it's hard to tell whether he's serious or not. "You're not my employer."

"Of course I'm not. But what harm is there in a little fun?"

"Please consult the nearest dictionary immediately on the definition of _fun_."

Ignoring him, the other man promptly finishes writing and clucks his tongue. "Ah, there we go."

Stepping back from the window, Francis clears his throat and straightens his back rigidly in an exaggeratedly stately manner.

"Upon the signing of this agreement," he reads, "both consenting parties shall be bestowed with certain reciprocal obligations. This includes the following conditions: Daily combing of unruly hair. And recognition of a particular partner's evidently superior culinary skills. And—"

"Is this a fucking marriage contract?" Arthur interrupts, stifling a laugh.

In response, Francis looks him up and down.

"And sex," he adds to the list.

A sudden hush pervades the room, sheepish and deceptively innocent.

It's over as soon as it begins. Arthur jumps to his feet, dead calm, his fingers outstretched for Francis's neck as if throttling someone were simply a part of his normal routine. Francis swiftly backpedals and protectively holds his hands up in front of his face. Nervously, he laughs. "Oh, honestly! I didn't—"

"Do you want me to go the slow way or the quick way?" Arthur asks smoothly.

"Arthur, I doubt that _your_ neck would remain unsnapped for much longer if you were charged with manslaughter. Even for the noble cause of preventing degeneracy."

Ceremoniously, he rolls up his shirt sleeves, as if intending to act on his threat, but can't stop a faint shimmer of amusement from passing across his disgruntled face. "Not if no one ever finds out."

"Not if there's a rotting body in your apartment."

"Not if I discard of the body."

"Not if—"

A sudden chill sweeps across his mellow features, and Francis abruptly cuts himself short. Some emotion, some memory freezes him in his tracks—and his eyes flit to the window, as if a drifting winter were watching him from behind the springtime night.

Gradually, his expression sobers.

In one fierce motion, he wipes off the writing on the glass. Condensation soaks his sleeve up to the elbow, but he barely even seems to notice. "Contracts like this are stupid anyway," he mutters darkly. "Exploitative and practically impossible to revoke. I... I of all men should know better."

Arthur frowns. "But you meant it as a—"

"—as a joke."

He leans against the window, eclipsing the moon with his lonesome shadow. Stares off into the pitch-black room. Cracks a smile, as if trying to ignite a match, to spark enough light to reflect off a mirror of his thoughts.

"I know."

And that's all he says, as Arthur purses his lips and wishes that the same light could let him see right through—this man whom he has known for months now, his odd little companion whose life still remains an utter mystery.

To understand. To empathize.

To _help_.

* * *

**.**

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* * *

**ahhh i hope this chapter went okay. kinda worried tbh. if you have any thoughts, please feel free to share them! any double entendres ****you may have noticed? any plot predictions?**

**anyway, much of francis's backstory will be revealed next chapter xD**

**~ Reviews are appreciated ~**


	5. am

_**Part V**_

* * *

"When he was young, my father learned a bit of piano."

"Oh?" Arthur raises an eyebrow. "Is he a lover of the arts, then?"

A small group of starlings take flight from the treetops below them, the last of their kind to abandon the warming city. Despite the weariness in his bones, he feels strangely at ease—or at least, as relaxed as he can be while treading on fragile ground. Francis's father is a sensitive topic for him, and Arthur can tell. Still, the rooftop lends a sense of comforting familiarity, and he finds himself clinging onto every word as the other man begins to speak.

"Well, not exactly," Francis admits. "For one, he quit by the age of twelve. In fact, when I was a child, I remember telling him that I wanted to be an actor, and he shut down the idea almost immediately." He sighs. "_Honestly._ Grant a child his frivolity, will you?"

"I thought that acting was a fairly respectable occupation."

"Oh, perhaps, but what did it matter to him? _Be a gentleman,_ he always told me. For whom? For a woman he would only approve of on the basis of her social standing? Not that I consider myself a finicky bachelor, mind you. I'm certain I could fall in love with any woman if given the chance."

Arthur snorts, but doesn't comment. "Really."

"Really."

"So did you ever pursue acting?"

"Never had the energy nor the authorization to do so. Schooling exhausted much of my days, although I did attempt to mimic a few dance steps in my spare time." Francis's eyes crinkle into a smile. "I'm sure you've seen them before. Do you remember? That first day on our rooftop?"

His face heats. "I still think you looked ridiculous."

"And I still think your hair needs combing."

_Our rooftop._

_Our._

How can he possibly react to this with anything but his usual scorn? Then again, if Francis is trying to provoke him, he's being remarkably subtle about it. And when he mulls this point over, he realizes that there is little room for contention in the first place. For if this is truly their common source of belonging, why should it not _belong_ to them both?

_Goddammit._

He's starting to tire of losing arguments against himself.

"Although," Arthur continues quietly. "If you ever dance again, I would stay to watch."

Immediately, Francis perks up, and he scoots a bit closer in response. "Oh, Arthur!" he coos, his surprise clearly transparent. "You're so _sweet_."

Arthur doesn't reply, but doesn't attempt to push him away. Instead, for the next several minutes until nightfall, they sit and gaze at the tiny people passing by beneath them. At the colors, the impossible union. Blue upon orange, water upon oil. A reversed gravity, and then the horizon slowly keels upward into the sinking black sea.

* * *

l|l|l|l|l|l|l

* * *

By the time the ship finally rights itself to face the dawn, Arthur is already well on his way to work.

Past the coach drivers, with their box coats and whips. Past the costermongers, with their handcarts and wares. _("Gingerbread! Baked potatoes! Sheep's trotters, one penny!") _Past the beggars, stares piercing, faces leaden, and once Arthur catches sight of a boy with two eyes swollen black in dried blood. It's a merry procession near the slums of the city, away from the splendor of the inner municipality, and he can't help but ponder how it must feel to see it from the perspective of an upper class man. How different the street corners must seem. Did they ever wonder what it was like to live in such squalor? Did they ever _care_?

Arthur passes the first well-dressed pedestrian as soon as he nears the the post office, beyond which lies the park he used to visit. He keeps his head down, silently noting the dress of the passersby as he hurries along. A three-piece. Then a simple cotton shirt. Then another three-piece, with a four-in-hand necktie. Then—

_Wait._

The necktie was crying.

He whirls around to stare at the departing figure, back hunched, head lowered. An envelope is clutched within his white-knuckled hands, and he can swear he had seen tears staining the light caramel paper.

Before he can get a better look at his face, the figure vanishes into the crowd.

A sense of foreboding rolls over him.

Without a second of hesitation, Arthur runs after him. Curses and startled yelps ring out around him as he shoves against the tide, one man even jabbing him in the ribs with his cane as he dashes past. Clenching his jaw in pain, he cranes his neck up as far as it would go and strains to catch another glimpse of the familiar figure. _Where the hell is he?_ _He couldn't have gotten very—_

There.

It takes a moment of searching, but eventually Arthur's gaze settles onto Francis's form—Francis who insisted on wearing a dress coat in the company of laborers, Francis who stuck out like a sore thumb in their run-down apartment but now blends into the background like one thread in a suit of thousands. Back to back against the wall of a polished storefront, he would appear almost halfway dignified if not for the tears he's busy trying to hide. As Arthur darts out of the crowd, he stumbles forward. His heart is racing. Suddenly, he has no idea what to say. Why did he think chasing after him was a sensible course of action?

"Francis?" he stammers.

The other man goes rigid, trembling fingers hovering by his wet cheek.

And then he uncovers his face, envelope still in hand. His wide eyes are red, perfect caricatures of the scarlet wax seal.

"Ar-Arthur?" he croaks. "What... what are you doing here?"

"I..."

_What have I done?_

His mind is buzzing, overheating with stimuli from inside and out. Perilous thoughts vying for dominance. Pointed whispers from the passing masses, at this peculiar spectacle—at the noble who would be harlequin, and the peasant who would be friend.

Arthur ignores them all.

Gently, he gestures to the letter.

"I apologize in advance, but was this from your father, by any chance?"

A look of distress pinches Francis's eyebrows together, then abruptly releases.

His face falls slack as he slumps against the wall and bites his lip.

"Yes."

A pause.

"But he is not my father."

A thousand questions swirl through Arthur's head. "_What?_"

"He may have raised me, educated me, hurt me, but he is not my father. Neither by blood nor in my heart of hearts. When he chose to banish me from his home as an illegitimate bastard child in a fit of rage, with only a bag and the clothes on my back, do you imagine that he loved me? Do you imagine that he thought of me as a _son_?" Francis's voice rises. "And my mother—when I left, she stayed behind. I don't know how she's doing now, or where she is, and he never writes of her in his letters. Does the other man know of this, the landowner who had bedded her only weeks before her marriage? _Who is—_"

"Francis," Arthur hisses. By the railway station in the distance, not quite close enough to reach, a whistle sounds as the clock strikes six. "I know you're upset, but keep your voice down."

Promptly, Francis's eyes fill with tears again. "Arthur—"

"I can't stay to talk right now, but I'll be free this evening after work." He takes a deep breath, tries to sound comforting. "Look, I can't claim to fathom the full extent of whatever the hell this is, but I appreciate the fact that you took the time to confide in me. I hope you understand."

As soon as he hears his own words, Arthur cringes. Because it's not _enough_, the vague promises and the vapid sympathy—especially with loss, _especially_ with abandonment, and he knows this all too well. And yet he can't bring himself to say anything more. Not with the sudden information overwhelming his thoughts. Not with the guilt, at the things he doesn't understand how to say and the things he _can't_ say.

When he forces his gaze back into focus, Francis is staring at him.

It's an unsettling look on him, for such an ordinarily oblivious man to be staring at him so intently and so sorrowfully. Yet at the same time, something in his eyes suggests a faraway melancholy—as if he were merely a photograph gazing into the future, or even gazing _back_. A shiver runs down Arthur's spine.

"I..." he begins.

He stops.

Francis is still staring.

In that split second, he makes a decision.

And then Arthur's moving, stepping toward him with a pounding heart, bridging the distance between them as he reaches out and squeezes Francis's hand. He keeps his gaze low. Sees Francis's jaw tighten.

Heat floods into his hollow cheeks.

Embarrassed, he abruptly steps back.

Before Francis can respond, Arthur swivels around and sprints off to rejoin the rest of the swarming crowd. If the other man cries out to him, he doesn't hear it. Over the clicking of his shoes on the macadam road, he can already sense his regret breathing hard at his neck.

_I'm sorry._

Around him, bodies surge, temporal servants to the order of minute and hour and week. In his head, he replays the other man's words, over and over until they cement themselves into the fabric of his consciousness. And it gradually dawns on him then, the unexpected parallels of their trials and tribulations, stitching them together despite wealth and privilege like the work of some desperate seamstress.

As he nears the station, pressure starts to build behind his ears. The closer he gets, the more scattered his thoughts become. _(Francis's stare. Train carriages, front and back, hundreds of feet apart yet somehow intricately __connected.) _Hell, he has _never_ been late to work before. He needs to _hurry_.

And then he can see the clock, mounted high on the station wall, brass hands cradling a gibbous moon.

_I'm late I'm late I'm late—_

The familiar shadow of the wrought iron roof falls over him, crisscrossed with sunlight.

He skids to a halt, gasping for breath.

6:14.

_Dear God._

He's here. He's _made_ it. For a moment, he laughs, allows himself to focus on just that tiny detail, the last standing pillar in the eye of the storm. Not the hubbub of conversation drowning out his thoughts.

Not the jolt of automatic coupling bumping carriages together.

Not the sunlight diluting his ghosts.

Then he straightens his back, and continues forward as if nothing has happened. He lets go of his focus. Ruminates over blank-eyed stares, dead photographs from the future, and a small phantom of a boy. Sitting alone amidst towers of luggage in the last carriage, staring at the floor with empty green eyes. He wonders whether that boy is curious about the passengers at the front. He wonders whether that boy realizes that they're all moving at the same speed.

* * *

At eight o'clock in the evening, Arthur departs from the railway station. He heads back the way he came, marking landmarks as he goes and searching for a certain face in the crowd.

No one even spares him a second glance.

After buying dinner from a familiar street seller, he returns to the apartment building and knocks on Francis's door. No one answers, so he leaves to stand guard by the front door instead.

And he waits.

* * *

It's nine o'clock, and Arthur is weary of waiting.

* * *

Finally, at ten o'clock, he sees Francis's figure trudging toward him through the darkness.

Dangling from his hand is a paper bag, emptied of its contents and stained with oil. Arthur calls out to him, albeit rather exasperatedly, and they gather underneath the light of the entryway lamp. While he apologizes for having to leave that morning, Francis apologizes in turn for arriving at such a late hour. _Dinner__,_ he confesses, as if that explains away the two hours that escaped into the void, and together they set out to walk the streets of the sleeping city.

There's a light drizzle falling tonight, not quite enough to dampen their clothes but certainly enough to dampen Arthur's mood. Upon his insistence, they take shelter under the nearest overhanging roof, where the wind is half and the rain is naught. _You planning on twirling around for me again? _he asks sarcastically, and Francis giggles, but there's an odd sadness hiding beneath the sound and Arthur wisely drops the topic.

Eventually, they fall into an awkward silence.

Usually, the night doesn't bother him. After all, it's the only time of day not governed by his shifts, when he can simply let the hours spill onto the floor and have no fear of drowning. But in the rain, the night tastes a little bitterer, the shadows a little sharper.

The realities of their lives a little harsher.

At last, he can't tolerate the pretense anymore.

He turns toward Francis. Notices his barely perceptible features, dark against darker against darkest. Raises a challenging eyebrow, as if to say, _You know perfectly well what we're here for._

The other man stiffens, and looks away.

A long moment passes.

Somewhere in the mind, he imagines, words pour like the rain, flow like the rain. Run down the streets before the gutters of their thoughts can pull them under.

But in the end, Arthur is the one to open his mouth.

_Well?_ he prompts gruffly.

* * *

It's eleven o'clock in the night, and Francis is sobbing into his shoulder.

He isn't completely sure how this happened, but now the other man's fingers are clutching at his shirt, and tears are dripping down his clothes, and Arthur's too flustered to respond with anything but a small pat on the back. Perhaps it comes with the territory of listening to someone pour out his entire life on a warm summer night. Or maybe—just maybe—Francis simply trusts him enough to act so openly in his presence.

_Trust._

What a nice word, notwithstanding the severe inappropriateness of such a public display.

If only he could muster the courage to reassure Francis, to convince him that the letters mean nothing, that it will become evident in time why his father is suddenly demanding for his return. That they will find a solution to his financial dilemma no matter what. But his cynicism is starting to come back, resurrected and stronger than ever _(Who is he?_ it sneers, _just another moocher __leeching off you __to glean some sympathy)_, and he has to tell himself to shut up and be grateful for the company.

And then an older voice enters his head, and he freezes.

It's a voice he recognizes.

_There's nothing you can do,_ he hears it remark._ You observe, and you envy, and you hate, but no amount of self-doubt will ever translate into action. You will never lift a finger, __even to reverse the situations you create._

And with a dreadful feeling, he realizes that it's true. It's always been true and will continue to be true, because it's a self-perpetuating truth and to deny it is tantamount to madness.

So he doesn't.

But he needs, and he _wants_. And he lets Francis bury his head into his shoulder until the sobs die down, until the aftermath crusts onto his clothes like some rusted alloy, and he wonders if this is what they mean when they preach the beauty of camaraderie.

* * *

Everything runs hazy from there.

* * *

l|l|l|l|l|l|l

* * *

After that, life goes almost back to normal. Arthur heads off to work in the mornings, meeting Francis on the rooftop whenever he's not too spent from playing porter all day long. There, they would converse, engage in friendly banter, tease one another at every opportunity. Neither of them mentions Francis's family again. All seems well with the world, and the universe appears content to let them wallow in their willful ignorance.

Then one evening, sitting in Arthur's room, Francis asks the most bizarre question he has heard in years.

"Arthur, how would you react if I told you that I'd kissed another man?"

To call him startled would be a vast understatement. Arthur nearly chokes on his own spit as he glances up from his newspaper. Francis's expression is dead serious, and worse, he looks nervous about what Arthur might say. _Afraid,_ almost.

"Well, I..." he mumbles, face crimson. "I suppose I shouldn't be too surprised that you'd stoop to such indecency."

Honestly, he should have _known_, what with the whole contract fiasco. He should have realized that the mention of sodomy was more than a mere perverse joke. "But with whom? Who the hell would—"

"I haven't done anything of that sort _yet_," Francis protests. "But what if I did in the future? Would... would you..."

On the mattress where he sits, he shifts his weight uncomfortably.

"Would you still speak to me?"

Situated beside the other man, Arthur pretends to be engrossed by his shoes and wishes he could disappear. On one hand, he would rather jump off the rooftop than continue discussing Francis's homosexual tendencies. But then again, he recognizes how important this topic is to him. And besides, what would it cost for him to put his friend's mind at ease?

He hesitates, then begins.

"Of course."

Francis goes still.

"I mean—" Arthur laughs clumsily— "who would I be to judge, anyway? I'm sure we've both engaged in much more egregious behavior in the past. On the other hand, if you ever dare insult my cooking again—" here, he wags a finger— "now _that_ would be an unforgivable offense."

Swiftly, he steals a glimpse of the other man's face. He seems genuinely relieved now that he's received the answer he's hoping for, but his expression still retains much of that recent restlessness. At his gaze, Francis meets his eyes and manages a grin.

"Thank you. I'm glad."

A silence elapses.

"So..." Arthur scrunches his eyebrows, struggling to find the right words. "You're..."

"Attracted to men," Francis finishes. "Yes."

He pauses.

"Although not exclusively. As it happens, my heart simply... doesn't tend to consider these categories important." Sheepishly, he shrugs. "If that makes any sense."

"How would you define attraction, then?"

"Well... ah."

Francis stops.

Something seems to hit him then, an abrupt revelation in devilry. For a moment, he looks over at Arthur uncertainly, as if attempting to gauge the atmosphere. To read his mood.

And then he smiles.

"Ah, yes. Let's see." Mischief creeps onto his expression. "Being passionate about someone. Pretending to hate them, despite being passionate about them. Pretending to both hate and not care about them, all while being passionate about them."

Suggestively, he cocks his head at Arthur, then frowns.

"You know, come to think of it, there should be a name for this."

It takes a second too long for Arthur to realize what he's trying to insinuate.

"Oi!" he protests.

Face burning, he whirls on him. "What are you trying to—"

"Arthur, learn to accept a joke every now and then," Francis laughs, holding his hands up in mock surrender. "I may be many things, but I am not delusional. I'm fully aware that you have no interest in me, and I have no desire for this to change."

As Arthur continues to stare, he kicks off his shoes and leans back onto the mattress. While reclining, his gaze travels to the cracks on the ceiling, as if distracting himself from the cracks in his reasoning.

He closes his eyes.

"After all, neither do I have any interest in you."

* * *

Francis is a liar. A truth of Arthur's existence as habitual as his work and twice as frustrating, except Francis's antics are much more ludicrous and he never takes breaks on Sundays. Whenever he sends Arthur that dreamy stare—giggles ridiculously at their late-night witticisms—trips over his own facade and tries to disguise his obvious desires—Arthur notices, and he wishes he doesn't. Still, Francis tests the waters, flirts with jokes, dispenses casual offhand comments and goes quiet as soon as their conversation enters the future. His words border on a warning red, but then he always retreats. Always tries to withdraw into the blue, to drive them into evanescence.

(And when the sun melts away at last, they become purple, a bruised purple like a miscarried eclipse. For the jealous moon never likes to hide, and hates even more to be hidden.)

It's transparent, really. Yet every time it occurs, something inside Arthur twists and turns oh-so-painfully.

* * *

Although Arthur, being a younger son in the family, has never been the subject of particularly high expectations, he's well aware that they've been recently sinking to impressive new lows. (Especially on the topic of—he shudders—_spouses_.) Indeed, he suspects that his brothers have already labeled him a lost cause, opting to write him the occasional letter while assuming he'd die some loveless alcoholic.

And, as a matter of fact, he probably would have.

If not for Francis.

And that's the problem, he concludes.

Arthur doesn't know what cursed part of his mind first began entertaining the idea of returning Francis's interest. It's a small but hopeful voice, whispering to him from deep within a well, and he wonders what could be buried there under the dark waters of his subconscious.

Which in all likelihood, is the reason why he finds himself standing before the structure one night.

With an iron pump and a long hemp rope, it sits as relaxed as a child underneath the shade of its slanted tiled roof. It looks large enough for his hopes, dreams, and everything in between (which, admittedly, are not particularly grandiose), but certainly not enough to trap all the inner workings of his mind. That night, the air is heavy like a blanket, a cold current always on the breeze where the warmth lies low. Uncannily, Arthur feels very much the same way—slow and lethargic and sluggish like a muddy river. For all he knows, he could be drunk, or drowsy, or dreaming—although he isn't quite sure what the latter means, only that it exists as some concept in a continuum of his reality.

Under the influence of some rationale he can't comprehend, Arthur bends over the well and peers down into the murk below. A disorienting move, for what he sees there only echoes the eerie lightness of his body. Somehow, the world seems to be upside down, the water suspended within the well where the heat coils thick. His head swims.

"Hello?" he calls.

Echoes ricochet down the cylindrical stone walls, a descending stairwell in major key.

_Hello? Hello?_

_Hello?_

And then a minor chord tears through the sheet music.

"But what if?" a sing-song voice asks from the depths below.

Arthur recoils.

It's not any voice he recognizes, nor even one he can plainly discern. Even more perplexing, however, is when he realizes he doesn't feel alarmed after the initial shock.

Only curious.

Amused, he calls back, "What do you mean?"

The voice hardly even hears him. "But what if?" it repeats.

_How odd. _As if to reassure himself, he tries his best to ignore the ominous bubbling from the water below. "Look, answer my question."

"But what if?"

Arthur scowls. "Didn't you hear me? What the hell is wrong with you?"

"But what if?" the voice wails, undeterred. _"What if?"_

With every word, another echo bounces up the well, monotonous notes from the bellows of a primal instrument. Within moments, the water starts to froth and boil. Soon, it begins to rise, an impossible surge spanning feet in heartbeats and yards in seconds. Arthur curses.

"Goddammit, shut up!" he yells into the well. _"Shut up!"_

But the voice doesn't stop. In a desperate attempt to save himself, he grabs the pump handle and starts turning, _hard_, wincing as drops of stinging water hit his face. Far below, he hears the clank of stone against metal as the bucket begins to lift. The more he turns, the louder the voice becomes, as if it were being carried up through the well. In response, he only strains himself further. _Come on, come on, you can do it—_

A splash of filthy water douses him in the face, and he blinks his eyes furiously as the edge of the bucket finally appears within sight. As the voice abruptly ceases, the surface of the water reaches the top of the well. Just before it overflows, Arthur wipes his forehead free of sweat and squints into the pail.

_Empty._

It's empty.

And yet he can swear there had been something in there.

"Who _are_ you?" he shouts.

Patience running low, he reaches into the bucket and begins rummaging around inside. Starved of its short-lived frenzy, the water gradually starts to recede. _Where the hell is it?_ He _had_ felt something near the bottom, he just needs to fish it out—

His fingers close around a thin piece of paper, somehow intact after its passage through the well, and he yanks it out to see.

Only three words fill the slip.

**Who _are_ you?**

And then the words are echoing again, except instead of wrestling with any physical chamber, this time they ring inside his head like peals of railway bells. Arthur staggers back. Senses the whispers all around him, _inside_ him, crowding for space and clouding out any trace of coherent thought. _(Who are you? Who are you?)_

_Who are you?_

_Who_

* * *

l|l|l|l|l|l|l

* * *

"Are you?" Arthur scoffs.

The park is at death's door, and they're lounging upon its corpse.

On the bench beside him, Francis's frown deepens. "Why do you assume that I can't be lonely? Such a condition afflicts indiscriminately, Arthur."

"For God's sake, you're more sociable than I could ever dream of being. You reckon anyone looks highly upon hermits who occupy the gutters of society? I'm aware what everyone deems of me, Francis." Begrudgingly, he laughs. "I am wholly capable of self-reflection, but instead of staring at the mirror, I punch it to shards and weaponize them. And that, I suppose—" he sighs—"is the reason why no one bothers with me."

He shrugs apathetically.

"Oh well."

(The sentiment is a lie, of course. He cares more about his reputation than Francis will ever believe, and what he doesn't mention are the instances when the mirror tumbles out of his control. When it becomes the very floor that sustains his weight, fracturing the moment he tries to move.)

Still, Francis looks troubled. "Yes, but you're missing the point. What _causes_ loneliness? What comes with human interaction that we place on such a high pedestal? Whatever it is, I could not obtain it in neither the home nor the ballroom floor."

_Absurdity. _How can Francis be as emotionally isolated as him, with his background and charms? "What are you aiming to achieve from this, anyway?"

"I was only curious!" Francis protests. "Especially since _you_ were the one to bring up the subject first—"

"Francis," he interrupts sternly. "Is this just another excuse to flatter me? To tell me that I'm the only person you've ever formed a real connection with?"

The other man's mouth abruptly stops.

"You..." Arthur continues accusingly. "You're trying to convince me to... partake in your... interests. To start a _relationship_ with you. Aren't you?"

There.

He said it.

And oh, does he regret it.

He watches Francis's hands stiffen, then clench. That day, his hair has been undone, not in a ponytail but hanging freely in silver-blond curls—cupping his ears, his cheeks, his tangerine lips. An unwelcome sensation shudders through him, and he almost recoils before he forces himself to focus. _No. Enough running._ Francis _is_ a decently attractive man—no, scratch that, he's possibly the most attractive man he's ever seen. The question is what he should do from here.

But what can he say in this moment, when his feelings are so conflicting? When explaining the entirety of his thought process would require a ten-page dialectic? What detail can he omit without betraying substance, without altering his intention?

And he realizes that there is none.

"You know," Arthur murmurs, "I never had much company in my life. Even when my mother was alive."

Francis's expression softens. "Arthur—"

"After she died, though..." He grimaces. "Well, she was our main source of income, especially after my father died several years before. And so, at the age of eleven, I went into the factories to work. I had to. It was the only way we could continue supporting ourselves."

Silence.

"It wasn't permanent, but the machines and their endless noise had left a mark on me. I became partially deaf in one ear." He shrugs again. "Hopefully that answers some questions you had."

Francis claps a hand over his mouth. "Oh, Arthur..."

"It's fine." And it is, but he can't quite shake that last ounce of resentment from his voice. "It hardly affects my life. I've grown accustomed to it."

As if indifferent, Arthur reverts his gaze to the scenery around them. It's the end of June on a mild Saturday evening, perfect for a picnic or a stroll through the trees—and the park is empty. _Except for us. _They shouldn't be here, sitting casually on benches together when the place has already been closed for days. Soon, the trees will be cut down, the greenery converted to yet more rows of streets and offices.

The park is rather small, situated at an unfortunate junction, visited by hardly anyone of any importance. Arthur doubts they would interfere with the larger ones down south. Still, some tingle of nostalgia runs through him. The locale has been a sanctuary of his for quite some time now, especially after Francis arrived, and he would hate to see it go.

"Arthur." Francis furrows his brows.

"What?"

For a moment, his expression adopts a haunted veneer, some animal fear. And then he glances nervously around the immediate vicinity, and he meets Arthur's eyes.

"How would you react," he murmurs, "if I told you that I wanted to kiss you?"

It's Arthur's turn this time to be tongue-tied, as he splutters out a string of colorful expletives and his mind struggles to catch up with his mouth. He knew this was bound to happen at some point—expected it, almost—but never could have conceived that it would be so soon. _What do I say?_

"I mean..." Francis chuckles halfheartedly. "It seemed like you already knew, so I figured I might as well say it."

"I—I suppose."

He wants to die. How could he have landed himself in this situation, from an anonymous recluse to a meddler whose name rests before the doors of debauchery? What if Francis had never stopped in this city all those weeks ago, and instead let the metal beast carry him far, far away on its skeletal tracks? _What would they think?_

Except he realizes now that he doesn't care what anyone else thinks. This is _his_ meaningless life to ruin, not theirs, and he might not be presented with such an opportunity ever again. What could it hurt?

What does _he_ have to be ashamed for, when Francis is the one staring at him so expectantly with an apology already on his lips?

And then, like a finely fermented wine, his decision is made.

Before he can change his mind, Arthur rubs his hands and declares, "Fine. Let's fucking do this."

To say that Francis's reaction was priceless would be a disservice to the value of currency. It must be worth enough for ten hot baths and enough meals to last him the year, and that must count for something. "A-Arthur?" he stutters. "Why—"

"If I have nothing else to live for in my miserable life," he announces, "I might as well die with the knowledge that I had committed an act of degeneracy and was fucking proud of it. So let's get this over with, right here and now."

Without hesitation, he pulls an astounded Francis down into the shadow of the bench seat. Behind the other man's gaze, he sees the old ghosts of a young caged creature, comfortable from its perch but restless to be free. It's still alive, he notes, alive but struggling, caught between the bars and the walls outside. Not very dissimilar from certain prisons of his own. And he considers how foolish it must be, to escape when there's nowhere to run.

Breathlessly, Francis throws an arm around his shoulders. His hair is practically glistening in the dwindling twilight, a slight scent of lemon and bergamot perfume about him. Suddenly, Arthur is much too aware of his palpitating heart, the clamminess of his hands, the sweat beading on his forehead—and he wonders whether he should wipe it away, why he even cares.

He's still wondering when Francis abruptly leans forward and presses their lips together.

Warmth floods his face, a tingling sensation spreading down his lips, his chin, the crook of his neck. For a second, Arthur lets himself be lost in the moment, in the slow movement of Francis's tongue as it presses against the inside of his mouth, in the heat of his hand as it rests upon his shoulder. It's a surprisingly pleasurable gesture. He almost closes his eyes.

And then he runs out of breath.

It starts out as a vague burning in his chest before it crescendos to a searing sting, at which point he has to pull away and gasp for air. His lips feel like an oven. "Dear God," he complains, wiping his mouth. "How did you hold out for so long? I couldn't even..."

He stops when he realizes that Francis is staring.

In all his life, he's never been especially used to being stared at. In theory, it should be liberating for someone like him to be a part of the background, to be so _cardboard_ that he shall never need be engulfed in the pit of another's eyes. And even when their gazes turn absorbent, when he becomes an active player in their world, he's accepted that the only thing he'll ever be rewarded with is scorn.

But this stare is different.

He's submerging, but he isn't struggling.

"Arthur, I..." Francis swallows. "Ever since we met, you've been providing me with the means to see the world through a new lens. And I should thank you."

His heart lurches.

"We're so different in so many ways, and yet our differences are embodied in our similarities. We're both restless souls, but you create meaning while I search for it. We both view life as a broken enigma, but you see the value in patching up holes while I try to tear out every puzzle piece that doesn't fit. You're comprised of so many contradictions, and so am I. You've lost and you've been lost, and so have I. I believe there's one more way we can bridge the gap, if only you would accept this."

_No, no, no._

_No._

He doesn't entirely understand why he's beginning to panic, why he's suddenly left feeling so vulnerable, so overwhelmed, like the parent of a weak new life. But somehow, he knows what's coming, and he's not prepared. _No. Don't._

_Don't._

_Don't say it—_

"I love you."

The ship capsizes.

He lets out a harsh bark of a laugh. Even to his ears, it sounds desperate and feverish. Seawater is flooding into his head, seeping through the cracks in his thoughts and into the machinery below. _Is this what it's like to die?_ This can't be happening. Who did Francis think he was, confessing like they were lovers? Like they were _capable_ of being lovers?

_Lightning only illuminates temporarily._

A toppling sensation rolls over him, and wood slides past his hip, his back, his arm. Before he knows it, he's on the ground, soft grass crushed beneath his palms and hysterical convulses wracking his body. Tears prick at the corner of his eyes. Fuck, he's never laughed so long, so _hard_ before. It's too much—he can't _breathe_—

"Arthur!" He hears Francis's distressed voice above him. "Are you alright? _Arthur!_"

Gradually, the shudders die down. The laughter subsides, the stitch in his side dulling to a barely detectable ache. It's then that he finally responds, adrenaline racing and feeling as if he has swum an ocean in two minutes.

"Oh, yes." He heaves for breath. "I'm fine. I'm completely fine. I've always loved laughing so hard that I can't even fucking breathe. In fact, I love suffocating so much that I suggest we kiss again."

With a sudden burst of energy that surprises even himself, he scrambles back onto his feet and pulls the other man forward. Francis doesn't protest, but there's worry in his eyes as he leans in and digs his fingers into Arthur's hair. Behind them, night vanquishes, and they kiss before the last breaths of a dying wood.

* * *

**.**

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* * *

**boy some parts of that backstory did not make sense did they**

**ack oh well**

**what did you think? backstory? metaphors? kiss scene? anything? idk lol**

**~ Reviews are appreciated ~**


	6. vice

_**Part VI**_

* * *

_i._

Arthur opens the door, steps outside, and trips.

Surprise seizes a gasp from his throat as he stumbles into the corridor, hands instinctively flying out to cushion his fall. He bites back a curse as his kneecaps kiss the cold floor, sending a jolt of pain up his spine. _Goddammit, am I not only susceptible to suffocation now but also tripping?_

Hastily, he scrambles to his feet and brushes himself off. How had that happened? He'd never tripped while walking through a doorway before, and the floor isn't even particularly slippery. Frowning, he glances back and raises an eyebrow.

There, lying on the threshold between room and hall, is an envelope.

It's from Francis. He can tell without even reading the address, from the flowery font of the letters to the roses doodled on either side. A stab of panic ruptures his morning drowsiness as the events of the previous night permeate his mind. The park. The kiss. They had _kissed_, and Francis had _confessed his love_. What is he supposed to do now? The other man will surely be waiting for him to reciprocate, and such a prospect is as dead as a doornail.

But why? Why can't he start a relationship with him, if only temporarily and if only in secret? Who is this man called Arthur Kirkland, and what pride does he have to cling to for defiance?

_(Damaged, echoing voices__ and cartilage-white paper. He's peering into the well again—__it's so dark here __and stars are glittering on the other end.)_

Who... is he?

His name? His occupation? His family? Do such identifications bear any weight for him, other than as superimposed labels of birth and convenience? _No. _Arthur Kirkland is arrogant, rude, condescending. Arthur Kirkland is alone, or at least insists that he is alone. He is no one, but shields himself with hollow pride.

And even he, jaundiced as he may be, is beginning to grow tired.

He grabs hold of the envelope and tears it open, eyes scanning the letter. Only the top of the paper is filled, the rest thoroughly dedicated to a huge, curvaceous signature that loops and spirals down the page.

Bloody poser.

**Arthur.**

**I understand that we do not reside within a society which would look kindly upon our love,**** and we may never. However, despite our difficult circumstances, I cannot help but wish to make amends for the isolation you have suffered in your life—i****n replacement of the ones who should have.**

**Will you let me?**

Rubbish. Utter _rubbish_. What does _he_ understand? What can _he _do?

Dashing back into his room, Arthur snatches the only pencil in his possession—its tips worn down, but suitable enough for his purposes—and briskly scribbles a one-sentence response on the back of the paper.

**I'd like to see you try.**

With that, he shoves the letter back into the envelope, marches back into the corridor, and shuts the door behind him. From there, he walks the familiar path down the stairs to the ground floor, where he tiptoes over to Francis's room and tucks the envelope right beneath the door. It's a beautiful dawn outside. He bitterly congratulates himself for single-handedly ending the argument.

* * *

When he checks under his door the next morning, there is no letter.

Beneath ribbons of sunlight, he has never felt so alone. Of _course_ it's his fault. Of _course_ Francis is always right. What could he have expected for being so curt? Francis had only wanted to help, and now he has chased him away with empty rhetoric. Arthur hadn't even met him last night, too exhausted to do anything other than sleep. And now Francis will be demanding for an apology, one that he probably deserves.

Miserably, he closes the door and trudges off to work. The sunlight vanishes, then reappears through the clouds, whipping around his feet like golden fabric. The touch of Francis's long hair brushing against his cheek haunts his memory, and he contemplates the sunlight until the station roof slices it into a crisscrossing pattern.

(The impression of a zigzagging needle sewing the light together crosses his mind. He tries not to dwell on the strange, sudden image of Francis's hair caught in a sewing machine. He tries not to dwell on anything at all.)

The next morning, there is still no letter, and he still hasn't met Francis. _It wasn't my fault this time,_ he tells himself, _I attempted to find him and I couldn't, _except somehow he can't manage to convince himself that he had afforded his utmost effort.

Briefly, he wonders what would happen if he simply cut off all contact with Francis. His internal resistance activates immediately. Such a possibility is impossible now—and not only for altruistic reasons, although the other man would undoubtedly be devastated. No, it's because _he_ needs Francis here, a revelation that startles and enrages him. And such is the nature of mutual attachment, for he realizes that it must be the height of irony for selfishness to keep his actions selfless.

* * *

After work, he heads to his room, determined to rest before searching for Francis.

He trips.

"Jesus Christ!" he hisses, hopping forward on one foot before catching his balance. "What is it with—"

And then he sees the envelope.

The moment his eyes catch the address, he snatches it from the floor and rips it open like a ravenous animal. _What the hell? _Why is _Alistair_ writing to him all of a sudden? What could he want now? What can Arthur possibly give to him?

Except it doesn't seem to be his handwriting.

**Dear Arthur,**

**I realize that we should probably reach out to you once in a blue moon, although we never do.**

_Is someone attempting to impersonate Alistair? _Arthur furrowed his eyebrows. _Francis?_

**Perhaps this is due to the fact that we live on the other side of the city? If only we were all under the same roof—but alas! Such was the case of our childhood, ****and ****we didn't care back then either!**

_Wait, what? _Is this a _parody_?

There appears to be no signature at first. But then, at the bottom of the page, he sees a postscript.

**P.S. Well, you did challenge me to "replace" them.**

No signature this time. But it's obvious.

Disbelievingly, Arthur snorts. It's a vast oversimplification of the situation, of course—but he's entertained by Francis's antics, and there's a short-lived sense of solace to be had at the lightheartedness of the letter.

_Except you're not really relieved, are you?_ a voice whispers. _Because you know his intentions. You know what he's trying to do, and you hate it._

It doesn't matter. Right now, it's his turn.

He paces over to his bed, picks up the pen, and mulls over possible subject matters.

And then he begins to write.

* * *

l|l|l|l|l|l|l

* * *

_ii._

"Here you go."

After Francis had removed half his lamps from their original location and began positioning them at miscellaneous points around the room, the interior design had acquired a much more aesthetically pleasing ambiance. Now Arthur is settling onto the other man's mattress, where a circle of lanterns encompasses the length of the perimeter. Intrigued, Francis studies the letter he has been given. "Oh? Have you decided to humor me with an imitation?"

"I'd prefer to see it as a bilateral exchange, actually." Arthur scowls. "Although it's quite the rough draft."

"_I __recognize that at twenty-one years, you have approached the age of majority, enabling total independence, voting rights, and the authorization to enter into legal contracts,_" Francis reads. "_As such, I am expelling you from my home __as a belated birthday present._"

Arthur squints at the photo frame on the opposite wall. Something seems... off. "Why did I decide that sending the letter in person was a good idea? And could you not quote everything out loud?"

"Why? Does it make you uncomfortable?" Roguishly, Francis jabs Arthur in the ribs. "But I love making you uncomfortable."

As he continues reading the letter, however, his expression softens. Perhaps he's wondering whether he's accidentally disclosed more of his personal story than he intended, or whether it's only the result of Arthur's shared experiences. By the time he finishes, he looks as if he's about to cry. "Oh, this is beautiful," he breathes, turning the page over. "If only my mother could read this."

Arthur raises an eyebrow in curiosity. "But don't you blame her? For her role in this situation?"

Francis appears troubled as he sets the letter down on the mattress beside him. "For conceiving out of wedlock, having the child after marriage, and then passing him off as her husband's son for twenty-one years? But my father was under no social obligation to evict me. Such incidences are rare, and I had no part in creating it. Really, it was nothing more than an excuse to be rid of me. He had always hated my attitude. And as for her..."

He trails off.

"You don't know what happened to her," Arthur concludes.

Francis shuffles anxiously. "I don't. Not really. As far as I can tell, she's still living under his roof. But I'm worried. They've never had a close relationship to begin with—their marriage was like a contract she couldn't escape—but in recent years, she's been acting strangely... detached. From her environment, not just him."

"And now his letters are requesting your return?"

"Yes. Positively dripping with sweet platitudes, those letters." For the first time since they met, Arthur sees Francis's lips curl in disgust. "I can't comprehend why."

A pause.

"Then again, perhaps I'm overcomplicating this," he sighs. "He could have merely regretted his choice. After all, he made his initial decision in the heat of the moment. And I can't last forever on the money I have."

_Ah, that's right. _How much longer could he afford the cost of living here? "I'd wager you should be able to last several more years at least. Besides, you'll have your inherited land and investments when your father dies, correct?"

"No. I'm still a bastard child. My brother will be receiving the entirety of the estate, and he has no legal obligation to assist me. But no matter what, I might still return."

"Why?" Arthur interrupts. "Because you don't want to stay here in this shitty place?"

Francis stops.

It seems like an odd question at first. Of _course_ anyone would wish to live a life of luxury, if given the chance. But there's a certain implication to his question, an implication that Arthur regrets alluding to immediately.

And then Francis grimaces, as if realizing something obvious.

"No," he suddenly says.

He squeezes his eyes shut. "No, I... I can't. I can't return. I can't leave." Ashamed, he brings his knees up to his chest and buries his head in his hands. "I can't leave _you_. I told you I loved you, and then I proceeded to completely disregard our relationship just like that. What was I thinking? I... I..."

Arthur bites his lip. Every time Francis mentions their _relationship_ like a concrete concept, his agitation spikes. Then again, perhaps there is no such thing as a concrete concept, because concepts imply a definitional fluidity. Perhaps there are only mutually agreed concepts. And he sure as hell doesn't agree.

"Look, it's fine," he mutters, looking away. "I understand."

He doesn't, of course. How can he understand another's pain without a thorough understanding of his own, something he's been escaping from for as long as he can remember? But staring at Francis, curled up on the bed, a stuttering actor who's forgetting his lines—it _hurts_. It hurts in that raw, visceral way, and he wishes now more than ever that he could do _anything_ not to _care_.

After another minute of silence, Francis abruptly whispers, "It's already too late. We burn either way."

And then he pulls Arthur into an embrace. He doesn't resist, even though it's below his dignity. His dignity has broken. Because he realizes now in a state of alarm that some diseased growth inside him won't let the other man go, and he wants nothing more than to claw it out.

Their eyes meet. God, he's so close, eyes bleeding love-fright and upending the play. His hair is still loose. He imagines that Francis is about to say something, or try to kiss him, or both. And he does say something, but it's not the words he expected.

Slowly, his fingers curl around Arthur's locks.

He closes his eyes. He looks so weary in the dancing lamplight.

"Arthur, please go brush your hair."

* * *

The comb Francis lent him is long and silver, ornately carved and intricately embossed. Frustration tears at him with every brushing of his matted hair, tangled in clumps and accumulated with grease. He hasn't bothered to tame his hair in months, if not years, and the effects are clearly showing. "Fuck my _life_," he hisses, cringing as his scalp stretches each time the comb hits a knot. Oh, but how he craves to rip out his hair, to storm over to Francis's room and toss it in his perfect face. _Why won't it straighten?_

_Why won't it straighten?_

"_Why won't it straighten?_" he yells.

Patience snapping, he wrestles the comb out of his hair and hurls it at the nearest wall. Except it doesn't hit a wall—it hits the window. Before he can blink, a crack spiderwebs across the thin sheet of glass. Below, the comb drops to the windowsill with a fresh dent in its side.

Blood roaring, he stops to catch his breath.

_Oh, fuck._

Rushing over to the window, he snatches back the comb and inspects the new crack in the glass. It's large enough to be noticeable, although not especially prominent. _Jesus Christ. _Why is he so temperamental as of late? What's wrong with him?

And then he spots Francis in the dark streets below.

He's hastening in from the direction of the post office, head down. There's another letter in his hands. As his figure passes through the crack in the window, it distorts and elongates, a sickly flower blooming too early.

In a split second, he's gone.

* * *

l|l|l|l|l|l|l

* * *

_iii._

He opens Francis's next letter while speed-walking to work, stressed and ill-tempered as he is from oversleeping on a weekday morning. Late-night meetings with him are evidently taking a toll on his physical health, and he silently adds this to a laundry list of resentments as he munches on a roll of bread.

As soon as he notices the greeting, a blaze of anger erupts within him. In a way, it's disturbing—he has never felt so much hostility toward Francis before, even two months back when they were nothing more than quarreling strangers. No longer can this emotion be relegated to mere irritation—he's _aggravated_, being eaten away from the inside out. The root of his frustration is no longer a person unknown but terrifying close, embedded deep in his chest with what feels like surgical precision.

**Dearest Arthur,**

**I understand that you may be averse to the idea of ****discussing**** emotions, and I suspect I may not have handled our conversation very well in our last meeting. These matters will return to haunt us one day—****but for now, I would like to extend the olive branch and suggest that we focus on more lighthearted affairs.**

_Go ahead, then. _Arthur kicks a pebble as he passes it by on the dusty road. _Ignore the fire and insist the tree is fine because you discovered one branch yet to be burned._

**Arthur, tell me. How are you doing? I get the impression that you often dwell in a state of boredom, ****and that shouldn't be the case ****for someone like you. You told me once that you liked to read whenever you had the time or the money. Perhaps I should buy you something.**

The pebble he'd kicked has somehow ended up in his hole-ridden shoe, and he desperately attempts to dislodge it to no avail. "Why the fuck doesn't he ever listen to me?" he hisses to himself, a hobble in his walk as he tries to avoid stepping on it. "Buy me books? What the fuck would he know about what _I _want? Oh, what a pure-hearted, deep-pocketed savior you are, Francis!"

**As for me, I'd often found myself wandering through my father's library in the days of my youth. Countless books rested on those shelves****, some of which piqued my interest, and others which could put me to sleep. A number**** of their subject matters were even quite absurd, if I do say so myself. I remember flipping through ****publications surrounding—amusingly—****the hypothesis of a hollow earth, some going as far as to suggest that we live on the _inside_ of such a concave sphere. "Cellular cosmogony", as one coined it.**

_Get to the fucking point. You want me to admit that I'm wrong, __don't you? That I need you?_

_Because you're so irresistibly perfect,__ and I'm a piteous misanthrope __who's done nothing good for anyone, least of all myself?_

_Because I need to be saved?_

_Is that it?_

**It's a silly idea, of course, disproved more than a hundred years ago. But I can't help but wonder**

_Get to the point._

**how such a world would operate, what I would glimpse there. ****And if every human being alive had one of their own, then I wonder**

_GET TO THE POINT._

**how yours would be.**

**I imagine I'd be standing on a back porch somewhere ****with a telescope, countryside for miles around. ****Gazing**** up at the spherical night sky, into the center of the world.**

**And it would be such a fascinating universe. If only a little lonely.**

No signature this time, either.

He turns the paper over, ignoring the hellish pain throbbing in his heart. Nothing. Francis's entire reason for writing the letter had been to lure him in with flattery, it appears. Typical. _It'll be my fault either way, whether I give in or not, _he realizes. If he ends up regretting his resistance, he'd look back and sneer at his pessimistic younger self, and if he starts hating Francis, he'd still be responsible for falling for his wheedling in the past. He can't do _anything_ right.

God, he's so pathetic.

Right before he can round the corner to his destination, he abruptly makes a detour off onto a narrow side alley, shadowed by clusters of decrepit buildings. Since railway companies were not permitted to demolish enough property to reach the center of the metropolis, many stations had to be constructed near the fringes of the city instead. This is manifested in the fact that the further he ventures away from the billowing smoke, the less crowded the streets become—until finally, he sights the vivid, inviting colors of a small meadow before him.

Tulips. Closed petals clasping hidden organs, like sets of blood-red pliers. _(Crushing. Crushing.)_ Perhaps they had been planted, or perhaps they're only wildflowers. Either way, it's a welcome diversion from the grays and browns of the buildings behind it.

What a beautiful secret garden.

He stands there for a long minute, absorbing the colors and the scents as they saturate his senses.

And then he shoves the wool of his shirt up to his face and screams.

No one will hear him through the cloth. Not in this secret garden.

He's being hemmed in, being _surrounded_ by lies. What has he been doing these past few weeks, fooling around with Francis as he ignores all his instincts? His common sense? His experiences?

Tremulously, he lets out a shaking breath. It should have been obvious from the beginning._ He views me as nothing more than a tool used __to satisfy his shallow self-projections. His attempts at sympathy __are only a facade to disguise his real self, a conceited persona as clear as day when we first met._ It fits. Why else would he be so eager to pursue him, to remind him of his insecurities? Why else would he claim to _cure_ his loneliness?

Love?

For a porter he'd met two months ago?

_Love_, between two men?

_Fucking ridiculous._

Oh, how he'd been utterly _played_. He should have never given the other man a second chance when they stumbled upon each other in the park. He should have left when Francis interrupted him in the middle of stone-skipping. He should have, he should have, he should have. But he hadn't, and now he can't dislodge that _thing_ from his chest. If he continues down the road he's on, it'll infect everything in its path and he'll have to carve out his ribcage.

With an anguished laugh, he lurches against the nearest wall. _R__ather be alone than be cornered by that bastard. _The letter is crumpled into a ball in his hands. He doesn't have any more paper left. He supposes he'll just have to write his response on the back of the ruined page.

_I'll do what I __told him before,_ he muses. _I'll make my own weapon. I'll dig__ out that _thing_ with a vice-like grip, and I'll fucking smash it to pulp._

And in that one moment, he vows that he will.

* * *

During lunch break, he retrieves the crumpled letter and smooths it out against his lap. From his shirt pocket, he withdraws a pencil—a writing utensil he now carries everywhere with him—and clenches it so hard his knuckles turn white. He grits his teeth.

Pauses.

Does he really need to do this? With a wince, he imagines Francis's expression upon reading the new letter at his doorstep, confusion bled to anger to despair. _Arthur, what is this?_ he'd whisper. _What have you done?_

Couldn't he just stop meeting him? Couldn't they just settle this cordially?

Is he unwittingly contriving lies of his own in order to recontextualize their past and justify his unwillingness to—

_No. _The voice is loud, vehement, primal. _I ignored him, but he wouldn't leave. __I compromised, but he exploited our conditions. I've been playing along, but now he's insisting on__ more. __And I won't concede._

_I'm tired of being pressured, of being expected to apologize._

_I'm tired of being guilty for not apologizing._

_I want this to end._

_I want this to end._

_I want it to return to how it was before. Just me against the world. __Forget all this nonsense._

_And he won't relent until I—_

He scrawls down something halfhearted, something assertive but something tactful, and it doesn't quite feel right.

A dark impulse races through him. Hadn't Francis once asked him to list everything he hated about him? And Arthur Kirkland, the idiot, had reassured him. He'd reassured him and sacrificed a piece of himself in the process. He'd been _vulnerable_. He'd sliced himself open to the bone, and allowed doubt to plant itself in his chest.

But he's awake now.

Impatiently, he taps the pencil against the wrinkled paper. Notices a puddle on the concrete from the corner of his vision, his reflection a colorless portrait in the murky water. Contemplates how to win, how to _hurt_.

Stops tapping.

"Well, Francis," he mutters under his breath, "you'll be hearing the answer to your question soon enough."

And he starts writing.

* * *

If he had been an unsuspecting passerby, he might have glanced upon the page and thought it to be a grocery list.

* * *

In the half-light of an ethereal moon, he sidles up to Francis's door, clothes dripping, heart thumping. Ordinarily, he would never return to the apartment so late, but he'd been slogging through dinner that day and now it's already past evening. One hour ago, he'd been sitting on a cold stone bench until the heavens opened and rain had chased him home. He'd never realized that it could take so long to drain a bowl of pea soup.

_Postponement._ The accusations start ringing in his head. C_oward. Coward._

_Coward._

In all his life, he's never wanted more to abandon a course of action. It requires all his remaining willpower not to sprint back out into the rain, where he would shelter under the nearest supplies store and waste the sum of his spare coins on yet another stack of paper. He'd write another letter, a better letter this time, a letter detailing how he's sorry about their situation, sorry for not recognizing _true l__ove_ when he sees it and lashing out in his denial. But he's jaded. He's so tired of blaming himself, and the part of him that desires Francis is not _him_.

That _thing _is an alien parasite.

In that instant, dread weds itself to disgust, his vow is consummated, and the matrimony is complete.

He kneels. For a moment, he watches blankly as patches of pallid moonlight roam over the creased paper, and then he slides it under the door and pretends that pang in his heart is anything but terror.

That night, his dreams are haunted.

Perhaps his subconscious had yearned to torment him, or perhaps it had only translated his longing for the past, because he dreams not from the lens of a twenty-year-old man but the recollections of a boy. It's 1869. His sole companion is a frail older girl with a stump for an arm. _I lost it in combat against a monster __by the riverside, _she told him, her build bony like a factory machine. Arthur was eight years old and he'd informed her it was bullshit. _Monsters don't exist. I'm not stupid._

But that evening, he'd sneaked out to the riverside, his curiosity too powerful to overcome. It was a different river, a river less muddy, a river more strong. There had been no monsters, but there had been a current. And when he ventured too close, the water had swept him downstream in a deep black tide.

He'd panicked, as any child would. Been tossed through the water every which way, and he couldn't tell up from down. At one point he thought he'd sensed claws grasping at his legs, but he'd only kicked them away and struggled harder. Eventually, the current had slowed enough for him to grapple onto a branch burgeoning from the ground, and he'd clambered back to shore with the last of his strength.

When he'd dragged himself back to the house, shivering violently and soaking wet, he'd entered through the back door and pretended nothing had happened. Only later did he learn that the girl had drowned in that river on the very same day, a presumed suicide.

But he knew better. He alone realized the intent behind her rescue attempt, and he—

_And he—_

* * *

His eyes shoot wide open and he pushes himself upright in bed, sweat beading on his forehead. Dots swarm through his vision like locusts, and monsters lie low beneath the shadows of the room, welcome mirages for the self-hating man. His mouth is a desert. The sheets are a furnace door. _Where am I? I..._

One second tramples over the next as he strains to regain his bearings. He forces himself to heave a series of deep breaths, until his heartbeat slows and his mind can clear. Little by little, his eyes begin to adjust, and he registers trivial comfort in the familiarity of his room, in the muted dawn light.

And then he remembers the previous day. The letter. The hatred. The ugliness of his inner world. Guilt like he has never known renders him a desperate animal, and he shoves himself off the bed and onto his feet before his mind can even catch up. Guilt, throbbing inside his head. Guilt, knocking on his skull as if demanding for his repentance. He can't explain why, he doesn't understand why, but he knows what he needs to do.

Down the stairs he goes, running and tripping. _I have to retrieve it. I have to retrieve the letter._ The echoes of his steps chime hollow against the sleeping walls. By the time he reaches Francis's room, he's practically pleading that it's not too late. Sweating, he drops to his knees, stretching his hand into the gap beneath the door. _I have to—_

There's nothing.

Incredulously, he feels around for the letter once again. Nothing.

Francis must already have it.

He rises to his feet and tries the handle. The only sound that greets him is a dull rattling. Locked.

Something hot is stinging at the corner of his eyes. He knocks. Once, twice, three times.

No one answers.

* * *

l|l|l|l|l|l|l

* * *

_iv._

_Perspective._

_Perspective._

_Persp_

* * *

l|l|l|l|l|l|l

* * *

_v._

(iration.)

* * *

Sitting under the afternoon sun, the air is sweltering and Arthur is depressed to the core.

It's Sunday. His clothes are drenched with sweat, his hair clinging to his scalp like guilt on a hapless sinner. Four days have passed, days of surreal dreams, restless brooding, and apologies stagnant on a reluctant tongue. Throughout the course of that time, the letter was all he could concentrate on, and yet it was torturous to be reminded of Francis when they had been avoiding each other like the plague. He regrets everything, and not only for the contents of the letter itself. What he hates is how he inevitably assumes the worst of anyone who dares approach. How he lets it _control_ him.

Perhaps nothing has changed in him, even after all these months.

Finally, last night, he decided that he couldn't tolerate the pretense any longer. The shame is overpowering, even if his remorse is only the result of irrational sentiments. So he'd bought the paper, and he'd written his shortest message yet. And he'd slid it beneath Francis's door, like a present made of pulp and graphite.

_**Will you meet me by the post office tomorrow afternoon?**_

_**I'm so sorry.**_

God only knows why he urged Francis to meet him in public. Perhaps he's afraid of seeing Francis in private, of what the other man might say when the crowds can't protect him. And perhaps Arthur is afraid of what might slip from his own lips—some unbidden truth, some underlying desire, emerging with the lifted anchors of their slashed veils. He _has_ erased something by writing the letter, but it's not the thing in his chest. He's only granted it better access to his heart.

And now Francis doesn't seem to be here.

Tensely, he withdraws the comb from his pocket and begins rubbing its silver teeth between his fingers. In the midst of all the chaos that has ensued, the chaos that he inspired, he'd never had the courage to properly return it to its owner. He _should_, given that it's easy enough to slide beneath Francis's door—but it's the only remaining testament to the other man's existence that he still possesses, and returning it would be tantamount to an admission of closure, of purchase. Almost like a receipt.

Without any real reason, he closes his eyes and runs the comb through his hair. Goosebumps tingle up his spine as he senses stares moving across his skin, passing pedestrians who would certainly wonder at the presence of such a comb in a poor man's hands. _Fuck it. I don't care. I didn't steal it. _As if in response, he starts brushing even rougher. As soon as the teeth stop against a tangle in his hair, he yanks the comb away, hissing.

And then he detects a different stare amid the crowd.

An oddity, that stare. Warily, it travels over his face, his hair, his hands as they go through the motions. A stare as curious as it is hesitant. A stare not so much judgmental as it is melancholic.

Arthur stops.

Cautiously, he takes a deep breath. Without daring to open his eyes, he slows down, patiently dissecting the tangles one by one until the comb passes clean through. Two minutes later, his hair is better kept than ever.

When he opens his eyes, there's still no Francis. But on his lap is a new envelope.

* * *

Without opening the letter, he stows it securely away in his pockets and promises not to touch it until sunset comes. Despite his burning urge to read Francis's reply, his surroundings render him a prisoner to the crowds, and the last thing he needs is a public meltdown. Besides, he needs time to prepare his mind before subjecting himself to a possible hate letter.

So he roams. Through the humid summer heat, the bustling streets, and the row of stumps where the small park used to stand. He roams until his hands start to itch. He roams until his route loops back on itself, and he's worn out, and the apartment building looms ahead once more.

At last, he can't endure it anymore.

The moment he's sure that no one is watching, he trudges up the path to the entrance and tears the letter out.

**To Arthur Kirkland.**

_Like we're strangers again. _He chews his lip.

Below, there's a peculiar set of words.

**1\. beauty**

**2\. privilege**

**3\. seclusion**

**4\. freedom**

**5\. identity**

**6\. purity**

**Select two words. Any two words, and associate them with a common theme. You may notice that some pairs are more challenging ****than others, but they can work ****with enough creativity.**

Pulse hammering, he turns the page over. Shadow deepens to shade as he steps through the doorway.

**The truth is, I should be more direct. But I can't, because I'm selfish. And I can't be blunt without betraying my image or my intent. How can I say one thing without the danger of the rest being contorted into something else?**

**I never thought that I'd be a coward in love. But here we are.**

Up the stairs. His heart wrenches.

**Arthur, I'm just as much of a disaster as you are. I can hardly even comprehend my own emotions. ****I become disheartened so easily, even if you don't see it, and I'd be lying if I said it was never because of you. But I realize now that I've been inconsiderate toward ****you. I've been pressuring you without even being aware of it, ****and I forgive you for not wanting to be involved.**

**I do not wish you to say anything you do not mean.**

Down the corridor. _No,_ he begs. He's starting to tremble, the walls of the building melting under the sudden heat wave. _No. Please. I regret it all. __Tell me this is all __because of me, if only you would let me back._

**You've always adopted ****a persona of aggression, ****and you never leave room for argument. ****You start with a capital letter and end with a full stop, and no one seems to be able to insert you into any sentence. But I understand now.**

**No one needs to.**

**You're a one-word sentence and you're enough, Arthur.**

_Why is there no signature? This is the third time._

Except he can see now that there _is_ a signature, minuscule and delicate, melting through the paper under the weight of his tears.

_Oh God—_

He staggers to his room, hands fumbling for his keys as he fights for control over his mind. It's so hard to move, so hard to see, so hard to _breathe _through the oppressive mass squeezing through his body. Finally, after a total of six tries, he manages to open the door. The room is dark. The second he's inside, he slams it shut, activates the lock, slumps against the door, and slides to the floor.

And for the first time in years, he sobs.

It hurts to understand that Francis is just as human as himself. When he recalls all the moments they shared together—to all the personas Francis had shed, of nonchalance, of arrogance, of charming elegance—he realizes how much of it had been a guise to protect himself, just like him. And perhaps Arthur is a fool to amend his judgment so readily, but so is Francis. After all, neither of them can be certain of the other's motivations.

As quietly as he can manage, he wipes his stained cheeks on his sleeve and shudders through another breath. _Breathe. _He identified the problem but misdiagnosed the cause. He despised being wronged by humanity but alienated instead of reconciled. Those who pass him at the station, those whom he watches from atop the highest floor of the lowest building. His dead mother. His brothers. _Breathe._ He should reach out to them sometime, offer them another chance. Apologize for being so stubborn.

And Francis.

_Francis, Francis, Francis._

Who the hell is he, anyway?

What right does he have to render him so helpless? The right of style? Spirit? Singularity? Of cool summer nights, lemon perfume, and a warm hand upon his shoulder?

_Breathe._

Weakly, Arthur cracks a smile. Night steals over his room, over objects possessed in name and a man possessed more by ghosts than by self. Gradually, the crushing panic begins to dissipate from his mind. He should go apologize to Francis. Not as a slave to his damning guilt, but as an independent conscience.

In the dark, vacant room, he slumps, thoughts wandering a labyrinth he's already traversed thirty times and a half. Occasionally, the sound of movement or conversation outside the door punctuates the silence. He lets it go. Other times, some half-developed unease starts gnawing away at him. He lets it go too.

Perhaps he still doesn't understand the majority of his compulsions, or why he acts on them. Perhaps he still has no purpose in living. Perhaps he _will_ die in this wretched state, in this wretched place, in a time where love can equate perversion.

But maybe, just maybe, there is one thing he is willing to do.

His heart leaps into his throat. Something about this future just seems so rushed, so unprepared, one narrow branch of an endless mirror maze. But he is tired of shattering reflections, even to cross to a greener side. Francis has suffered enough. The words won't breach the glass, but he'll continue walking, and the road will be theirs.

And then before he knows it, he's on his feet and out the door.

Behind the clouds that encircle the window, the moon is invisible, and it's beautiful. It's beautiful not by observation but by virtue of permanence. And cloaked in the shadows, hauled in chains behind him, is a small phantom of a boy.

_Don't hurt me,_ he pleads, _I was only trying to protect you. _Arthur believes him. There's no use pretending that he isn't as much a part of him as the love he holds dear, but he can't allow him to be in control again. He can't afford it. As he nears Francis's door, Arthur stops. _This should the last time I'll ever have to do this,_ he tells himself.

And he lets the boy go.

It's with a vague sense of inner peace that he knocks on Francis's door. He knows he should be apprehensive, especially in the light of his misdeeds. He knows he should be anxious, and he is. But three words aren't enough anyway. Three words aren't enough to communicate the companionship Francis has provided, the friendly rivalry, the exasperated amusement, the wistful wonder. He plans on elaborating, and elaborating with actions.

Or at least he would, if anyone were answering the door.

He knocks again. "Francis?" he calls.

No one arrives. A twinge of worry dampens the lightness in his heart. He knocks again and again, louder and louder, to no avail.

And then he tries the handle, and the door creaks open.

Why is the door unlocked? Alarm presses him to peer into the room.

"Fran—"

He freezes.

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**Oh, don't worry, he's fine. **

**(Sort of)**

**~ Reviews are appreciated ~**

**Anyhow, the nice thing about pre-writing a story is that there's no excuse for you not to update (for the 1.5 people reading)**

**Hopefully everything sort of made sense**

**I suck**


	7. immune

_**Part VII**_

* * *

The room is a mess.

From the toppled lanterns to the stripped curtain rod, not a single corner remains unscathed in the wake of the destruction. Unsettled, Arthur stares into the musty shadows, hardly daring to comprehend the scene before him. Had Francis done this? Why? Judging by the state of his travel bag, its contents scattered all across the floor, he _could_ have been searching for something, unlikely as the possibility may be. There's scarcely any furniture in the room to conceal a potentially elusive object.

Hastily, Arthur steps inside and shuts the door behind him. His eyes are wary, darting to and fro across the eerie darkness. The coal black window is sealed as tight as a jar, a glass door to an airless oven. As he proceeds cautiously toward the desk, he nearly trips over a book and curses. _This doesn't appear like any sort of calculated destruction._

_This appears like the work of sheer impulse._

Something about the idea ignites a spark of fear inside him. For a second, he wonders if he'd indirectly caused this mess, if he'd been the one to stir Francis into a spell of rage. But the other man had sounded so _calm_ in his letter, so collected. Had he been feigning his composure?

Had it been a horrible mistake to change his mind about him after all?

And then, as he advances toward the window, his shoes run into something rigid.

He squints.

Francis's photograph.

Curiosity compels him to retrieve it from the ground. No matter how many times he'd visited Francis's room, he'd never received the chance to examine it as closely as he'd like. Something had always seemed amiss about the portrait, although he couldn't ever pinpoint exactly what it was.

Now that the photograph has been dislodged from its position, he can see a spot of white near the bottom of the frame, innocent as an eraser mark.

_"I don't even remember bringing it with me,"_ he remembers Francis complaining.

Swiftly, he seizes a slip of paper, trapped between the photograph and the frame, and yanks it into the light.

_A note._ Anticipation soars through his bloodstream.

Lit by the scant glow of the overturned lamps, wicks still burning in their round glass prisons, he reads:

**Francis, before you turned twenty-one, ****I deposited a sum of wealth ****in your savings account without my husband's knowledge. Your blood father provided the funds. ****It should be more than enough to supply you for the rest of your life.**

**I am so sorry for everything.**

**This is the last thing I can do for you.**

His heart stops.

Suddenly, the note seems illusory, as if oscillating on the border between surrealism and mortal folly.

_For the rest of your life._

_For the rest of your life._

The sweet, sweet words.

Hope surrendered from the least expected of players.

Had Francis's mother hidden the note here herself? Had Arthur just been the one to discover it?

Worry temporarily subverted, his eyes widen and his breath quickens. He wants to laugh. He should notify Francis as soon as possible, enlighten him about the good news. No longer does his future rely on the whims of an undependable brother and a vengeful father. He could convince him to stay. They could _live_. Hell, they could even move away once they stumble upon the right opportunity.

_This can't be real. This can't be real. _But the note is still there in his shaking hands, and the same wobbly letters are still scrawled across the same white parchment.

He needs to locate Francis.

But where?

It doesn't matter, he decides. He puts the note away gently into his pockets like some angelic stowaway and strides toward the door. He'll search in every place he can think of to search, and then some more. Consolidated with his confession, it'll be the best day of their lives.

There's a new spring in his steps as he heads out into the corridor. Glee bubbles up his throat until he can't hold it back anymore. His disbelieving laughter echoes off the walls the whole passage up the staircase.

* * *

"Oi, Francis!" Energetically, he bounds up onto the darkened rooftop, his hair wind-rustled, his grin the size of a moon yet unseen. "Guess what I just uncovered!"

For indeed here lies the resting place of Francis's person, a regular to their second home and predictable as always on matters of nostalgia. He goes motionless the second he hears Arthur call his name—back to his lover, gaze locked upon the cobblestone streets below. For a moment in the imagination, it almost seems as if he might turn around.

But he doesn't move.

"Hey, Francis."

Instantly sobering, Arthur paces over to his spot by the center of the roof and softens his voice. Clouds are gathering in the starless sky above. The elation from earlier seeps through the mouth of the cold summer night, leaving a slow-acting dread to swell in its place. "What happened?"

Francis shifts, but doesn't respond. Worry begins to constrict its stranglehold on Arthur's gut.

"Look, you'll catch a cold out here," he murmurs. "You're not even wearing a—"

"Why are you still here?" Francis interrupts coolly.

Abruptly, he stops. It's a valid question, one that deserves an answer, and one he shouldn't have neglected. Behind him, his guilt materializes, sliding irons onto his wrists and tugging him toward the concrete ground. _Apologize. Apologize._

As if to relieve the pressure, Arthur crouches down onto one knee and sighs.

"Francis, I'm truly sorry." Immediately, he cringes. The more he speaks, the more he panics. "It will never happen again. I was angry. I was deluded. I—"

"Is that all you came here to say?" Francis questions bitterly. His eyes are heavy like deep-set jewels. "Doesn't seem like your type. You _uncovered_ something, you said? What is it? I hardly dare believe it to be a sense of shame."

The words are a sharp stab Arthur never realized he could inflict, but as resentful as Francis appears, he doesn't seem quite as enraged. Something else must have occurred. Something greater. "Francis—there had been something in your room. A note from your mother, hidden inside the photo frame. She explained that she'd deposited enough money in your bank account to last you the rest of your life."

Francis's expression shifts in surprise, but doesn't rejoice as Arthur had hoped. "Really? Then again, I haven't paid much attention to my account in a while. Crammed with surprises, isn't she? Filled to the brim, so tight that she's dry-heaving over the sink and everything tastes of blood."

_What the hell?_ What is wrong with him? "So? Don't you understand what this means?" Arthur pleads. "What this means for _us_? If... if you wanted to, we could..."

He's panicking. Never before has he imagined that the window between them could be bolted and not merely closed, boarded and not merely shuttered. _Don't be rash. Don't shatter it. Don't shatter it. _Desperately, he tries to lighten the mood. "I mean," he laughs, "this... this _is_ a piece of rather good luck, yes? I suppose she's no angel of the house, but she—"

"—is dead," Francis finishes stonily.

A droplet splashes onto Arthur's shoulder and blooms across the cloth. _Rain._

He swallows.

Suddenly, the note in his pocket drops to an ominous weight.

"What do you—"

"Arsenic poisoning. It said so, right in the newest letter." Francis shudders, head bent over his useless hands, lips guarding crystal words he can't dislodge from his silver tongue. "Suicide. It must have been. Even my father sounded stunned. I'd sensed that she'd been miserable for years, but..."

_This is the last thing I can do for you. _

The closing line of the note hovers before his psyche. It had been _planned_.

"Francis, I... that's terrible."

The other man doesn't respond. He's as silent as a corpse.

Overhead, the rain continues splattering onto their clothes, light and malnourished as it may be. He dreads whenever this happens—when he's alone with a sorrowed companion, and he's the one bearing the weight of both their burdens. He dreads it not for lack of empathy but for lack of initiative. What can he possibly say in these situations? The answer to which he has neither been blessed nor instructed.

Finally, he scratches his head awkwardly, and mutters, "Perhaps we could mourn inside? It's raining."

Francis's lips twist into a sickle. "Don't you remember that time when I said I don't mind the rain?"

"Yes, on our first meeting outside of the station. But..." _Our clothes are going to be wet,_ he wants to protest. _I have work tomorrow._

"If the rain bothers you so much," Francis huffs, "you could leave. Unless you have more to say."

And then the realization hits him.

Oh, hell.

How could he have forgotten? Adrift in the current, he's lost sight of the shore.

His legs buck beneath him, and he nearly staggers a step back. _Steady._

"Francis," he says quietly, "you might not want to hear this after everything you've endured, but..."

"Spit it out." He scowls, teeth glinting in the distant lamplight. "You told me in your letter that you were tired of my rose-carpeted _pretense_. Well, the same can be said for you. Hurry up and quit with the vague pity. Frankly, I don't consider it particularly convincing."

Arthur's hair, brushed only hours ago, is ruined. Rain drips down his forehead, his neck, into the space between cloth and skin as if hugging the insides of a sunken ship. A wretched image. Francis is clearly through with him, and he can't blame him.

What if he simply gives in?

And then he looks back at him, at the other man, concentrating not so much on his features but on his profile—the only perceptible part of him in the near-total darkness. And he thinks, this is the same silhouette he's always seen. Perhaps he will never determine where Francis begins or ends, for form has no thresholds, but he exists. _They_ exist, and such a reality cannot be obscured by any shadow in the night.

At least, if Francis never forgives him, he may live knowing that he's forgiven himself enough to say the words.

Slowly, he draws out a breath.

"Francis, I love you."

There.

The words taste like ash. He's burned long enough.

For a long, tense moment, Arthur wonders if the other man has even heard him. If he'd been as still as a corpse before, he's as good as mummified now.

And then Francis whirls around to face Arthur for the first time. His eyes are wild, the confusion in the heart of the storm—his shoulders quivering, his composure about to crumble. Tears run down his cheek, practically indistinguishable from the plummeting rain.

"_Arthur._"

He smothers a choking sob. "I thought I'd told you in my letter that you shouldn't say things you don't mean."

_Oh, Francis. _

"I do mean it, Francis. I mean it as sincerely as I can." Arthur gently reaches out to clasp Francis's hands in his. The other man doesn't resist, eyes as glassy as a porcelain doll. "You have no obligation to continue this relationship. I just had to let you know."

_Lies._ If Francis rejects him now, God knows what tantrum Arthur might throw.

_I need him to understand. _But he can't fathom how.

Oh, how he wishes he could be as eloquent as the most eloquent man in the world, hunched only inches away on the wet concrete.

As Francis sobs, Arthur grips his hands tighter—living fossils of a primal display, ragged breaths swallowed only by the rain and the endless inky black. Together, they punctuate the canvas. Pierce void with form. Protrude from the cloth, two misshapen pearls of paint, drying into each other and into the woven sea.

At last, when Francis's crying dwindles to sniffles, Arthur lets go.

And he speaks.

"Francis, we should head back now."

No response. Tenderly, Arthur tugs on his hands. "Francis, come on."

Still nothing.

Carefully, wincing at his aching joints, Arthur rises to his feet. He retreats until he reaches the stairs, where a short wooden overhang provides merciful shelter from the elements. The rain is starting to grow heavier—from light to leaden, from thread to needle. What a numbing blanket it is that the night sews.

"Francis—" he calls despairingly.

"You know, occasionally I wonder how my life would differ if only I had been able to obtain the respect of my father," Francis murmurs with a delicate chuckle.

_Mad._ He's a madman, engaging in casual conversation while sitting out in the pouring rain. "Would he have banished me then, I wonder? Would he have split the estate among me and my brother instead of bestowing it all onto him?"

He laughs, a lonely sound in the howling wind. "Then again, if he had, I would have eventually had to split _my _portion of the estate among _my _children, and so on—into smaller and smaller pieces, until my descendants wouldn't be able to support themselves anymore.

"And you know what usually happens to worthless parasites like me who can't manage to warrant the respect of their elders? They're compelled by circumstance to earn their worth outside of the aristocracy. But I refused, because I was young and delusional. I clung to a mere string of hope to this very day." Francis's eyes are open and staring, even as water drips down his sodden hair and pale face. "That's who I am, Arthur. That's who you _love_."

Arthur clenches his jaw. "You're not a _parasite_."

"But lo and behold," Francis smiles, as if he hasn't heard, "I suppose today has been a lucky day for me. I received a present from my pa. I can now live without working for the rest of my life. What a marvelous coincidence."

"Francis."

"Stop saying my name." In the downpour, the other man's voice is barely audible. Despite shivering uncontrollably under the torrent, he pretends as if he doesn't notice. "Just stop. Please. Let me stay out here as long as I want."

Helplessly, Arthur stares up and down his stature. Through the rain, he's all but a blur. A contour of light and shadow, of grayscale and monochrome, of imperfect delineation. He looks so brittle.

_But I'm not stupid,_ he remembers Francis once saying. _I know when to come inside._

_I know when to come inside._

_I know when to come inside._

And then he snaps.

"Do you have_ a fucking death wish?_" Arthur screams at him.

And he charges into the rain.

The world around him compresses into a single plane. There's only shadow now, shadow and water, the rain assaulting every inch of his skin, every corner of his vision. The moment he reaches Francis's slumped body, a blot of ink washing away in the flood, he grabs him from under the arms and hauls him roughly to his feet. And Francis, the bastard, tries to resist. Tries to push him away, but he's weak and exhausted, and no match for someone used to manhandling baggage on a regular basis, whether material or emotional.

Eventually, Francis gives in. And he lets himself be dragged off the concrete, the other man's arms around his waist, his chin on his head.

On the staircase, Arthur is sobbing. He's cursing Francis's name through his tears the whole way down.

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**Only one more chapter plus an epilogue to go. Woo boy.**

**Anyway, l****ove y'all for making it here. ****This project was pretty fun for me to write,**** so if you have any thoughts to send my way, please feel free to do so. ****Anything would be appreciated. I'm really just kind of a sad weirdo ****who writes things ****lmao, so no need to feel intimidated ****c:**

**~ Reviews are appreciated ~**


	8. thrill

_**Part VIII**_

* * *

As the ashen, distant sunlight passes over him, he opens his eyes to the shadows of another age.

There are presences encircling these walls. They are ghosts to the oblivious and apparitions to the pedantic. They are relics to the observant and imaginary to the sane. They are of many and a variety. They dance—from ceiling to corner, from bliss to sorrow—then disperse through the walls of the sunlit room.

They are him, they are other, and their time has gone.

A dim glow penetrates the window, a weary light that can't quite reach the ceiling. From his position atop a bed of thorns (repairing loose springs is a hopeless endeavor), he listens as they shuffle about just outside the room, backstage actors and distorted voices, yelping and laughing as if they have not passed long ago. Enacting old memories to the accompaniment of static. It is such a haunted state they inhabit, of repetition, of equilibrium.

There is Arthur, a dirt-smudged child with grubby hands. He is sculpting a crown made of river mud and wishing it were gold.

There is Arthur again, older now, alone in the middle of a crowded mill. He possesses no gold, but the dust from the cotton yarn bears similar hues in the sunlight and it's beautiful. It's beautiful as it coats his skin and drifts down his throat and he coughs his lungs out into the humid room.

And then there is Arthur—the oldest yet, bitter and indignant, the most recent addition to the trophy room. After all these years, he's been dethroned at last. Worse yet, he's been succeeded by an upstart identical to him in every manner, save for the most repulsive mindset of all—_hope_. But Arthur—this newest creature—won't allow Francis's present to him to be stolen.

From a decade past, he hears someone calling his name. Smiling sadly, he pushes himself up in bed and slips into his shoes.

He shouldn't keep the dead waiting.

* * *

Awash in a soft radiance, the corridor appears almost inviting as he breezes through the dawn light, stopping only before Francis's room to press his ear against the door. Immediately, he can detect a clear indication of movement—some creaking floorboards here, some shuffling there. It's relieving to know that the other man is up and about after last night's turmoil, although he can't help but wonder what he might be doing so early in the morning.

_You should have stayed overnight, _a voice whispers. The neglected boy among them—his troupe has been shadowing him all along, it seems. _It would have cost no trouble. Hurry! Go see him now!_

Gently, Arthur pushes the voice away. He _had _provided him company last night—deep into the night, in fact—and after all the unrest, he'd expect Francis to want a good sleep.

A sudden warmth rising in his cheeks, he turns away from the door and strides out toward the sunshine.

_Rain. The only sound he could discern through Francis's laborious breathing __and his own quiet sobs. __They lurched down the hallway together like a pair of madmen, staggering in lockstep as __rivulets ran off their drenched clothes. Frigid cold was all he could sense—on his clammy skin, on their dripping hair, in Francis's trembling hands as they clenched desperately onto his shirt. _

_They passed Arthur's door. He ignored it. A stream of rain trailed behind them __all the way down the stairs. By morning, it would dry, and all signs of their passage would be erased. _Why? _he wanted to scream at Francis. _Why would you do this to yourself? Why?

_But the answer was too close for comfort, close enough to pollinate his blooming panic. So he said nothing._

Breakfast is simple, a buttered slice of bread served by the side of a busy street. As he watches the pedestrians stroll by, he mulls over the previous night with heat pulsing up his neck, hoping his embarrassment doesn't show. It hadn't been more than a couple hurried kisses and a tired hand cupping his chin. So why is he so restless?

Is he hoping they'd done _more_?

_"Inside," Arthur ordered, his voice hoarse from crying. He pressed the key back into the palm of Francis's limp hand __and hustled him into the darkness of his room. "Mind the lanterns on the floor."_

_The moment they were both safe, __Arthur closed the door behind them and latched it securely shut. By the time he spun back around, Francis was already huddled on the side of his bed, teeth chattering violently as shivers convulsed through his body. Some sentiment, __some strong emotion swept through him then, and Arthur wasn't sure whether to hug him or yell at him. _Are you out of your fucking mind? _he'd shout. _Are you _trying _to hurt yourself? If you can't be bothered to care about yourself, then why don't you even care how upset I was?

_And, worst of all: _Is this all because of what I said?

_Instead, he turned around __to face the wall._

_And he said flatly, "Remove your clothes. There should be a spare set strewn around here somewhere."_

_For several heartbeats, there was silence._

_And then he heard a sigh, so low __it was barely audible through the deluge. The next thing he knew, the sound of squealing__ mattress springs resonated behind him. A heap of sopping clothes hit the ground soon after, the floorboards creaking in what Arthur could only assume to be Francis searching for a new set. Face reddening, he stared into the shadows and tried not to let his mind linger __on obscenities. _

_"Arthur?"_

_He jumped. The other man was standing much closer than he'd realized. "I need something to serve as a __towel," Francis muttered. "Could... could I..."_

Arthur munches inattentively on the remainder of the bread.

It had been more than _kisses_.

_Francis hesitated._

_"Could I use your shirt?"_

_His stomach turned. __O__ne glance down at his own clothes revealed that they had been dampened by the rain,__ but not quite as much as Francis's. Although they wouldn't be able to dry in time for tomorrow, he was fortunate enough to own two other shirts just in case of an incident._

_It couldn't hurt to help._

_"Sure," he mumbled._

_His fingers gripped the bottom of his shirt. He didn't miss the sound of surprise Francis emitted behind him._

_And then he began to undress._

Finishing the bread in one swift bite, Arthur peels himself from the wall and starts his usual trudge to work, dodging a young woman as she rushes past. His surroundings are dull from familiarity, a stage set he cannot escape—but he imagines that a new actor might help liven up the dreariness, even an actor as trapped as himself. He should walk the streets with Francis Bonnefoy someday. Distract his mind from the never-commencing play of which their presence is perpetually demanded.

Perhaps then, life behind the drop curtain might become a little easier.

_If Arthur had been ignorant of the situation, he might have thought that Francis looked quite amusing. Perched barefoot on the side of the bed in a loose suit and trousers, tie hanging slack around his neck like a halfhearted noose, he appeared as if he had never before donned modern attire._

_As for himself, Arthur no longer had a shirt to speak of. Such a detail should have startled him, being in Francis's presence, but circumstance necessitated maturity and they both understood this._

_Or at least,_ _he did._

_"Oh, Arthur!" Francis breathed, __batting his eyelashes suggestively._

_Despite his obnoxious demeanor, __a certain haggardness still clung to him. It colored his movements dull and brought his image clashing __in the glinting lamplight—illumination against shadow, cheekbone against jawline. Arthur buried his face in his hands. "Christ."_

_"Here." Playfully, __Francis patted the space beside him. "I saved a spot just for you."_

_Reluctantly, Arthur approached the mattress and met his gaze. "Don't tell me you've already recovered," he murmured. "I don't believe you."_

_"Oh, shush it," Francis pouted. His eyes were caverns __in the darkness. "If you have any objections to our current proposal,__ then allow me to __present an alternative."_

_"Hey—"_

_He let out a surprised laugh as the other man gripped his arms and hauled him up onto the bed to sit on his lap._

At the post office, Arthur halts in his path to watch the masses head in and out of the tall white building. Silently, he marvels at the innovations and the institutions that have prompted the rise of long-distance communication through their existence. Bringing about such joy or devastation through a storm of line and symbol.

At the park's grave, he wonders where the starlings will convene when winter arrives.

And then he surrenders his shadow to the roof of the station. It's 6:10. He's on time. Although sparse in the morning, the crowds only grow as the day continues. They wax as the darkness wanes, high tide as the night ebbs low, a spatial complement to the optical canvas.

His arms ache.

At last, the sun begins to descend. Tainted orange under the draining sky, the railroad reeks of burned coal. The crowds are starting to disperse again, although there's a considerable number still waiting. He's impatient to go home—to see Francis smile under the lamplight.

And then he hears a voice behind him.

It's a voice he recognizes.

"Thank you, sir."

_Suddenly, Francis quietened._

_He pursed his lips and looked down, avoiding Arthur's gaze even as he straddled his hips. __Something in his eyes, some mirror in his glassy stare reflected the ambiance of the void, and Arthur's short-lived rapture abruptly dimmed._

_How could this man who had smiled and flirted only seconds ago be the same man who desecrated this room?_

_What else did he not yet know about Francis Bonnefoy?_

_Slowly, he watched as Francis raised his hand and tangled his fingers through his hair. A tingle shuddered down the side of his face, his neck. A long sigh left Francis's lips, then brushed past Arthur's skin._

_Outside, the wind whispered. And the rain laughed back, clapping against the concrete in vicious mirth._

_"Arthur, I'm sorry."_

His blood turns to ice.

_Francis._

Instantly, he whirls around, shoulders shaking. There he is, heading toward him and blind to his presence. Heading in from the direction of the _booth_.

Why is he here?

Why is he at the train station, slinging around that travel bag of his?

Why did he just buy a _ticket_?

He looks so lost, so agitated, wandering the station amid the murmuring crowds of passengers-to-be. As he nears Arthur, his head whips every which way, the sunset gleaming off his silver-blond curls. _Searching for me. _To approach him or to avoid him?

Right as Francis is about to pass him, he thrusts out a hand and latches onto his shoulder.

"_You._"

Francis stops.

Arthur's voice is deadly calm, dragged upstream by an undercurrent of anger. The other man widens his eyes, then hastily retreats a step.

"Ah, Arthur..."

He trails off with a voice crack.

"Tell me," Arthur whispers, "what brings you here on this fine day?"

Francis starts, perhaps realizing that these are the same words he'd once heard months ago, in this very station. "It's—it's complicated," he stammers. "It's not what you might suspect. I left a note at your door explaining—"

"Explain _now_."

"I _can't_," he cried, tears starting to well in his eyes. He clasps Arthur's hands in his own and meets his gaze, ignoring the sharp inquisitive stares enclosing them like a ring of barbed wire. "Arthur, this will _not_ be a permanent position. I will be back, as soon as possible. I... I just..."

For a prolonged, agonizing moment, Arthur is suspended in indecision. Should he trust his lover? No—should he trust a _desperate man_?

And then his jaw hardens, and he narrows his eyes.

He holds out a hand.

"Will you give me the honor of lending me your luggage, good sir?"

Before Francis can react, he seizes the bag from his hands and steps back, back, back until he's standing at the edge of the platform. The railway tracks lie just below, ominous as an untamed beast. Alarmed, Francis opens his mouth to protest. "It's not time yet to—"

_And Arthur forgave his sins, for he was no more innocent; and they huddled against each other under cover of shadow, love, and all other manners of darkness. _I never understood how much I was hurting you, _Francis whispered as he smoothed out Arthur's letter upon his lap. _I never meant my actions to be construed as such. _Except, he realized, Francis did little wrong. And so Arthur spent the next hour attempting to convince him of his ghosts' invisibility, an ironic endeavor considering how uncertain he was of his own._

"Your luggage," Arthur hisses, "is going nowhere until you explain the situation _now_."

Francis's lip quivers. "Arthur..."

"You promise that we'd be together, then proceed to hop on a train back to your old man's estate. Your old man, who depressed his wife to the point of suicide. All because of _what_? Because he told you to? Was he _polite_? Did he—"

"I only wish to settle matters with him once and for all," Francis begs. "After this, I'll come right back, and we'll have no need to mention him ever again. Please."

Arthur's face softens, but he doesn't release hold of the bag. "What sort of _matters_?" he demands. "What could _he_ possibly want? An even deeper pocket? I—"

"Yes."

An apprehensive silence ensues. In the distance, a whistle sounds, and the crowds around them shift in impatience.

_The train._ Francis visibly tenses.

"From what I can deduce with the clues I've gathered, he's somehow learned about the... present I received. He must be planning to manipulate me into yielding him at least a share of it." He sighs. "It was quite a large sum, too. Did I mention that my blood father was wealthier?"

"And why would you willingly involve yourself in such business?"

Arthur's voice is quieter now, not so much vexed as plain _sad_. "Why can't you just ignore him?"

Vulnerably, Francis manages a smile—that beautiful, heart-wrenching, idiotic smile. "Because I have a conscience."

Another silence arises, not as a replacement for the tension but as an supplement. He extends his hand, palm up.

"Give back the bag, Arthur. I've done what you requested."

_A conscience._

_A conscience._

"A conscience," Arthur repeats.

He laughs.

"A conscience."

"Arthur," Francis murmurs. "The bag."

"A conscience. For scoundrels like your father?" Arthur laughs again, more hysterical this time. His voice rasps, like playing metal against a bone flute. "A _conscience_?"

The weight of the past several days rams into him all at once. _Of course_ Arthur hasn't resolved his own issues, only tried to outrun them. _Of course_ it's absurd that Francis should have to waste his conscience on someone who never deserved it. Someone who had rejected him from the very beginning. Someone who lashed out at him in response to problems he had no part in. Someone who only accepted him out of selfishness.

Someone like his father.

Someone like Arthur.

"Arthur, the train is about to arrive," Francis pleads. And indeed it is, a growing blemish on the horizon. "Arthur!"

He steps toward him, but Arthur doesn't budge. Something inside him has resumed control over him, some grinning saboteur. They're giggling at him, _jeering_ at the pathetic man who thought he could be more.

What right does Arthur possess to delude himself? To believe that he loves Francis for any other reason than to repress his own loneliness?

_This is wrong. This isn't how it's supposed to end. This isn't just upside down, it's inside out. _Organs spilling onto the ground, swollen heart pulsating through connective tissue, nails digging into flesh and bleeding bleeding bleeding—

"_Arthur__—_"

And then abruptly, Francis is yanking at the bag, _hard_. The glass globe around Arthur's mind shatters, and he staggers back in surprise. His grasp on the bag loosens, and before he can stop, it slips from his hands and tumbles onto the train tracks below.

Francis's jaw drops. His face pales, and his gaze darts around the station, as if expecting someone else to help. But no one notices, and even the ones that do look away and pretend not to. "Arthur—I didn't mean to—"

A surge of adrenaline rushes through him, and Arthur drops to his knees, craning his neck as he strains with all his might to reach for the bag. His clutching fingers brush against air and nothing else.

"It's no use!" he gasps, twisting around in Francis's direction. "I hope that bag didn't contain anything vital—"

Francis is gone.

Pulse echoing wildly through his head, he stands still and scans the station from wall to wall. Nothing but top hats, slim silhouettes, and the dying gold. _Then where—_

"Arthur!" he hears the shout.

Behind him.

_Behind _him.

He swivels around, his panic hitting a roaring crescendo. There on the train tracks—almost five feet below—is Francis, crouched over the rails and face taut with concentration. Clutched within his hands, innocuous as ever, is the bag. "Arthur!" he yells again. "Catch!"

For a split second, his heart stops. Instinct demands that Francis forget the damned bag and climb back up the platform _immediately_. But reason pulls him back just in time.

He squeezes his eyes shut and takes a deep breath. _Calm down. There's still time._

"Look, you'd better—"

The bag is sailing through the air and into his arms before he can even finish his sentence. Arthur stumbles back under the sudden burden, almost colliding into a crowd of gathering onlookers.

"Excuse me," he apologizes to a man in a black coat, then sets the bag on the ground.

He doesn't dare urge Francis on. He doesn't even dare call his name, for fear of drawing unwanted attention to their curious relationship. He can only peer with bated breath as the other man lowers his head, and shifts his posture, and stops.

And doesn't stand.

"What's happening?" he yells to him, unable to tolerate the suspense any longer.

With a pace most unbefitting of his circumstances, Francis turns around. His eyes are flashing with dread in the fading light—a golden scythe, purging the shadows on its last harvest.

He curses.

"Excuse me a moment," he calls up. "It appears that my sleeve has been caught on the rails."

The mood of the crowd begins to agitate.

_(Hair caught in a comb. __A needle stitching the light. Hair caught in a sewing machine__—)_

_"So, how should we do this thing?" Arthur laughed._

_"That, my dear, is up to you." _

_Francis smiled wryly, then cupped the other man's chin and kissed him on the cheek. "Clearly, I'm not the one thinking straight lately."_

_"Well, neither am I."_

_His skin was so warm, even through the old cloth. Cocooned in the damp cold, Arthur leaned closer to the sun and gazed into his eyes—at the embers that shed hope and him, at the only light that he might once conquer. Around them, toppled lanterns blinked feebly in the utter darkness, glowing sirens in a sea of shadows. He feared the consequences s__hould their blazing tears ever spill onto the floor._

A child behind him starts to cry. Someone suggests calling for help, but no one listens. Ignoring the commotion and his own mounting alarm, Arthur storms over to the edge of the platform and yells, "What do you mean, _caught__—_"

"I can manage!" Francis shouts back. He grimaces as the rails begin to shudder—vibrations from the encroaching train, Arthur realizes in trepidation. "I just—"

As if to prove his point, he yanks at the loose threads trapped around the bolts securing rail to sleeper. Nothing happens, so he hunches down on both knees and starts hastily disentangling them one by one. Meanwhile, the metal head of the locomotive looms in the near distance, chugging along with car after car in haul.

_He'll run out of time soon, _Arthur agonizes, watching Francis struggle below him. Visions scorch onto his mind, of blood and screams that wring out his heart like dripping laundry. _After all we've been through, after all the hell we've dragged each other through__—_

_No__—_

_NO—_

_So let us in, _the ghosts implore. _After all of this is over, you can forget about him. Forget about the pain. We'll guide you,__ and you can be happy. __You can be calm, __you can be assured, __you—_

Arthur crushes the voice. A feverish determination is rising within him, a resolve that cannot be quelled by any doubt or loss.

_You observe, and you envy, and you hate, but no amount of self-doubt will ever translate into action, _he remembers once telling himself. Back then, he'd regarded it as the indisputable law of his world. The emperor looking out over his glorious reign, where borders held strong and no war was ever fought.

But if his ghosts have taught him anything, it's that no sovereign is eternal.

"Take my hand!" Arthur yells.

The second the other man spins around to face him, he grabs hold of Francis's free hand and _tugs_ as hard as he can. The sound of snapping fabric fills the air, and Francis gasps as he stumbles forward on his feet. Sweat pours down Arthur's face and into the crevices of his neck. It would only be half a minute _at best_ before the train arrives.

_There's still hope. There's still hope._

Beneath him, Francis tries to gain a foothold on the sheer wall to no avail. The rails are still shuddering, the ground thrumming beneath their shoes, trembling before the might of the metal beast. Gritting his teeth, Arthur grips Francis's hands and begins hauling him up inch by inch—then abruptly releases in horror as the other man's arm _pops _in its socket. "Francis—" he gasps.

The other man doesn't respond. It's all Arthur can do to stop him from collapsing back onto the rails, paralyzed with terror as Francis has become. His eyes are glazed, his body as still and stiff as a slab of stone.

_I can't do this on my own. At this rate, he'll__—_

_He'll—_

Whirling around, he settles his desperate gaze upon the crowd, now standing ten feet back and _staring _with fear in their eyes. Arthur curls his lip into a disgusted snarl. Rage builds inside him, burning higher and higher until it consumes him altogether.

"_What the fuck are you doing?_" he howls. "_Help him!"_

And there they go again, rows upon rows of neat little lanterns, as one leaks hot oil from its eyes and its fragile glass vessel goes up in flames. In a last ditch attempt to save Francis, he wrenches at the other man's arms with all the strength left in his burning body, forcing himself to ignore his pained cries until his shoulder _dislocates _with another sickening pop. Fuck, he's _hurting_ him. _There's nothing else I can do._

_THERE'S NOTHING ELSE I CAN DO._

_If only I hadn't let go of the bag__—_

_If only he hadn't come—_

_If only we had never met—_

He can't die quite so wretchedly, beneath the roof of a place such as this, surrounded by _monsters_ such as these. He is Francis, invincible in heart and in mind—except Arthur has already seen him fall, but perhaps he'd like to keep pretending.

He can't ever—

_Die_.

Hysterically, he snaps his head up to stare. The train is hurtling toward them at a headlong speed, about to end Francis's life in seconds. About to end a future—a future _together_—that Arthur doesn't deserve.

_Why? _

And then he understands.

_Because, despite everything—despite the apologies and the tears__—despite the letters, __spare sets, and old __memory prisons—_

He's not enough.

Those instants before the train hits, his mind brings him back to a certain evening, to moments spent by the riverside skipping pebbles into the muddy water. Francis had just arrived, and Arthur had been irritated. _But when you have been expecting—and dreading—a certain prospect for any length of time, _he thought, _there will be a part of you that continues to cling to that possibility._

And indeed, as he senses the tremors through the ground and he stares into Francis's unseeing eyes, he realizes that some diseased part of him has already lost all hope. Is wishing that the train would crush him sooner, if only so the pain would not be prolonged.

_At the door, Arthur paused. There, he__ gazed upon the room, at the sirens and the shadows, and the bed-ridden sailor lounging ridiculously upon the sheets. __Perhaps, he thought, they were worth it after all. _

_Francis winked back, a star yet dead._

_Arthur smiled. __The light had not reached his eyes through the long distance between them._

_"Goodnight."_

* * *

The wind slams into him before all else.

A blast of heat knocks him back as an amalgamation of engine and coupling shoots past. One moment ago, he'd been clutching Francis's wrists. His hands are empty. He's staring, staring, staring at the blurring world around him, at the sudden red staining his palms. Where is Francis? Where—_where did he—_

And then comes the screaming. It's behind him, beside him, in the screech of the wheels as the train slows to a halt. He hears shoving. Sees shouting, then tastes blood.

The floor he kneels upon is cold. The air is a vintage gold, the world turning concave before his eyes. Now the sun is at the center of the universe—at the center of an inside-out earth—at the blood now splattering the platform. Like a legless soldier, he crawls toward it, heedless of the pandemonium around him.

He sees red.

He sees white, splintered bone shards clouding the crimson sky.

The last sunset he will ever witness with Francis.

He doesn't move. He doesn't speak. He doesn't howl, as much as his insides churn in torment. He can only stare vacantly into the dripping blood, unable to conceive a single coherent thought.

And there he remains, until someone comes to clean up the mess and hauls him to his feet like a uniformed puppeteer.

* * *

He is told to collect his pay and go home.

* * *

**.**

**.**

**.**

* * *

**...**

**yeah**

**that happened**

**(against all available ****evidence of the effects of adrenaline on stress response and strength ****lol. although to be fair francis was paralyzed with shock so arthur was basically trying to haul an almost two hundred pound deadweight up five feet in under thirty seconds while panicking over accidentally breaking francis's very breakable arms****. but still)**

**(...honestly just go with it)**

**but... wow**

**this was a journey**

**(Which came to a screeching halt.)**

**~ Reviews are (greatly!) appreciated ~**


	9. y

_**Epilogue**_

* * *

_**sixty-eight**_

_**years**_

_**later**_

* * *

_**1949**_

The plate of coleslaw is homemade, and it's horrendous.

In truth, ruining coleslaw must have been one of the most challenging accomplishments of the twentieth century, alongside the development of aerodynamics and agricultural mechanization. Shredded cabbage does not usually lend itself to many creative liberties, although Arthur Kirkland has managed to invent several against all odds. And so, under the wavering light of an electric lamp, he wastes the night away with salad and rationed tea.

In his younger days, he might have attempted to deny his culinary ineptitude. But ever since the decades shaved the hair from his head, he finds that he no longer has reason to—after all, he lives alone, and there's no sense to be had in defending a lie not under attack. In this small council house where he hides, he has been spared the impending danger for which his younger self has always prepared. Antagonism has always granted him purpose, granted him _will_. And in its absence, he has been forced to settle on his next best nemesis—himself.

Perhaps this is the reason he continued living. Out of spite.

Especially after...

_Especially after—_

In the living room, the telephone rings.

The hair on the back of his neck shoots up on end. _The telephone._

The telephone.

His hearing must have degraded even further in the years since. Who the hell in their right minds would be calling _him_? In fact, he's recently been regretting buying the damn contraption in the first place. It had cost a fortune, and he doesn't even have a practical use for it. _Just in case, _he'd told himself. _Just in case._ Just in case of _what_? Just in case of—

_This, apparently._

The telephone is still ringing in that persistent and irritating manner. Sighing, he abandons the plate on the dining table and stumbles over to the source of the noise.

After picking up the handset, he presses it to his ear and states his own telephone number. "Hello?"

Static stretches the seconds to a standstill. He starts wondering whether he should call the operator, whether he should even bother.

_Is this a joke?_

And then, just as he's about to give up, an unfamiliar female voice cuts into the silence.

"Hello! Are you Arthur Kirkland?"

The voice is raspy but sharp, and faint curiosity ignites inside his wizened heart. From the sound of it, she is middle-aged, although still much younger than himself. "I suppose. Who are you?"

She whistles. "Glad to be your acquaintance! I'm Bella Maes!"

"What do you want?" Arthur exhales. God, he can't stand energetic individuals. "Do you know what hour it is?"

"I'm getting to it," she sighs. "You're quite entertaining at parties, aren't you? Listen, I have a question."

"Oh?"

She clears her throat.

"Have you ever known a man by the name of Francis Bonnefoy?"

His mind goes blank.

Cold sweat beads on his palms, and he clenches the edge of the table for balance as the world capsizes. The horizon darkens, and he hates how the mention of his name still causes such a strong reaction in him. _How? _After all these years, he thought he'd finally sailed out of the storm. He thought he'd reached closure at last, in bitter acceptance and late-night sobbing.

But of course, one cannot sail off the corners of a spherical earth.

"Who," he growls, voice quivering through gritted teeth, "the _fuck _are you?"

Silence chases the shadows into his imagination. Through a distance of signal and mile, he wonders with a hammering heart how she could possibly have known who he was, let alone his relation to _Francis_. _We told no one but ourselves. I was interrogated __on suspicion of murder, __but was released __once witnesses confirmed the incident's accidental nature. There is no written record of our relationship._

_So how—_

"I'm... I'm his half-sister," Bella mumbles quietly. She seems caught off guard by the anger in his tone. "I apologize if you would rather not discuss him. I can leave now, if you want."

Arthur heaves in a deep breath. It rattles inside his old lungs and releases into the cold night air. _Calm down. _"How the hell did you find me?"

"Francis and I had the same biological father. Remember how he was the illegitimate child? Well then, I suppose I was that man's legitimate daughter." Bella pauses. "Many years ago, I had been a young lady curious about my family history. And in that worn travel bag of his—I dug out a small pile of letters that no one else had bothered to read."

Alarm stops him in his tracks. "You mean—"

"_To Arthur Kirkland, _one greeted," Bella murmurs. "I... was intrigued. In all my life, I never could have conceived of such a story behind my dead half-sibling, the family member no one liked to speak of. And to imagine that... _that you__—_"

Her voice disappears into the void, perhaps the same one that holds his stolen years and his sense of humor. Arthur wonders what happened.

And then he strains his ears and realizes that she's _laughing_.

"Oi—"

"I'm sorry," Bella giggles, regaining her composure. "It's just that—two men—sending love letters to one another..."

_At least she doesn't sound disgusted._

"Anyway," she continues, voice sobering, "I delved deeper through the records and ended up discovering his entire background. Part of me wanted to contact you to understand more, but didn't know how, and later forgot about the topic—at least, until recently. Today, I put my phone book to use. And that, I suppose, is the reason I'm here."

He considers the situation, unearthing past memories and comparing them to Bella's explanation. _Huh. _It does appear to coincide—although his indignation at being dialed still outweighs his relief at the woman's apparent credibility. "So this is all just an amusing scavenger hunt to you, isn't it?" he hisses. "Well, congratulations. You found the hermit with the degenerate past. What a story you'll have to tell your grandchildren now!"

"Look, I understand that this is a sensitive topic," Bella sighs. "You're right, I should not have confronted you without warning."

"So tell me, where is Francis's stepfather now?" Arthur growls. He spits onto the floor, gaze wild. Thinks about storming into the kitchen and roving through the cabinets. "Where is that scoundrel hiding?"

"What?"

"Let me know so I can visit him with a butcher knife and—"

"Christ." Bella curses. "Are you even listening to yourself right now? I knew you'd be aggrieved, but it's been _decades_. How have you persisted in being so angry all this time?"

"Do I have viable reason _not _to be?"

Through the earpiece, Bella slaps the surface of something hard and solid. "For God's sake, are you going senile? You're _ancient_, Kirkland. An eighty-something-year-old-man! The only thing you would still be able to kill is a corpse. Which is just as well, because the man you intend to murder has been dead for _half a century_."

"Bella, I..."

Arthur bites back the rest of his words just in time. Within him, the rage smolders out.

_I knew that. Of course I knew that._

Bella is right. He ruminates over his long, pointless life, over the hamster wheel he's been running in ever since he was old enough to walk. He's witnessed the golden sunset of Victoria, survived two world wars that shook his nation to the core. And throughout the course of it all, he's been the same loner he's always been, working and switching jobs until he's almost about to drop dead. Even in retirement, he has nothing to anticipate. He doesn't even have the eyesight to read anymore.

What a waste.

"You're right," he whispers. He laughs, the sound melting into the shadows. "It's about high time that I die."

A stunned silence follows.

"You know, sometimes I'm not sure if you're joking, attempting to generate sympathy, or revealing genuine self-loathing."

"And you don't need to know," Arthur retorts icily. "There's nothing you can do for me anyway."

From the shuttered window behind him, somber moonlight encases his figure in a pale contour. He could hang up right now. He could finish dinner, prop up his regret against the nightstand wall, and drift off to sleep with Francis locked just outside his bedroom door.

But something stops him. Perhaps it's the fact that he hasn't wandered through the city in years. Perhaps it's the thought of a comb he never did return. Whatever the case, he realizes that it might be the last time he ever has a proper conversation.

He hesitates.

"Sometimes I look back," Arthur murmurs. "I look back and I wonder what I did wrong."

Bella pauses. "Were you... were you close with him?"

_Yes. He became so much to me, __and I never showed him so._ The thought is a heartache but a heartache so tired, bathing in its own grime after years of stagnation. "In the event that you're hoping I spout some sentimental rubbish about how much I miss him, you can piss off. These are _my _memories to endure, and you'll have no part in it."

"Ah, I understand. I'm sorry." Bella lowers her voice. She sounds sad. "I didn't mean to shout earlier."

"Mm."

"Just..." She chuckles. "Should I at least extend my sympathies before I leave?"

Arthur lets out a small laugh in return. _Patient,__ huh? _"For the little good it'll do, go ahead."

"Then I ought to fulfill my duty as a useless mortal who cannot alter the past, and tell you that I wish you two had made it somehow." Bella breathes out, almost thoughtfully. "I do. I really do. There, did that help?"

His vision abruptly blurs, and he rubs his eyes in surprise. Why is he getting so emotional? Moreover, why is he getting so emotional over the words of a _stranger_?

He averts his gaze.

"A... a little."

He pauses again.

"I suppose."

"Then my obligation here is done for now," she declares. "If you don't mind, perhaps I'll call again in a couple days' time. I get the impression that you don't converse much."

"Please do." Perhaps this will be his last gasp to the world, words traded under moonlight, pleas made to the last piece of Francis's memory. "That is, assuming I'm not dead by then."

"Jesus. Are you always like this?"

"Perhaps." He cracks a dry smile. "Must be what Francis saw in me."

"Ha."

Silence. If Arthur listens close enough, he can hear it roll across the floorboards, just like in the old days. And if he concentrates on the sensation of cloth against skin, a warm hand materializes upon his shoulder. Its broken fingers brush weakly against his arm.

"Well," he mutters. "I should go."

"Goodnight," Bella replies with a hint of cheer in her voice. "Don't die until I'm done with you, Kirkland."

"Whatever."

And yet neither of them hang up.

When he closes his eyes, he can hear the sound of static and her quiet breathing through the receiver, intermediate noise against soft pulse. So much conveyed through so little. What was the point of him ever meeting Francis, if he was only ever going to die? What is the point of his life, meaningless to all but a handful of industrialists to whom he was merely a replaceable cog?

_None, of course. _And whose fault should it be? Society, himself, or human nature?

He ponders over a certain silver comb lying neglected in a certain bedroom drawer, how the scarcity of his hair has rendered its purpose null. He ponders over love, over hate, and over a bridge he only ever crossed once. He ponders over the fact that he hasn't seen the city from an open rooftop in years.

And he thinks, it's already too late.

_Why?_

"Goodnight, Bella."

He hangs up.

* * *

_**Fin.**_

* * *

**.**

**.**

**.**

* * *

**\- A/N -**

**Dude old man Arthur was born in the fucking 19th century ****how is he alive considering that the _modern _UK life expectancy is still lower than****—**

**ANYWAY**

**This and possible other inaccuracies aside, thank you so much for reading!**

**Honestly, I can say without hesitation that this was the story I had the most fun with so far. I was actually a bit intimidated by the idea at first, ****but I'm glad it turned out alright!**

**Again, a comment would be greatly appreciated. ****Anything helps.**

**and if you notice something with the chapter titles hehehe**


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